#beneath the citadel spoilers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flowerandblood · 10 months

Text

The Impossible Choice

Correspondence between Aemond and Daeron

Letters exchanged between Daeron and Aemond from before his arrival in Storm's End to Aemond's letter asking him to come and join the war. This is an additional chapter to The Impossible Choice series. The timing is based on when Aemond received Daeron's letter and when he wrote his reply to him. Beware the spoilers.

Daeron Three days before Aemond arrived in Storm's End

Brother, thank you for your extensive letter. I would be happy to review the books you mentioned, and I will also send you some positions I read recently in the Citadel. They are very interesting musings by Maester Harwin Arryn on the origin and history of dragons. I understand your concerns and frustrations about choosing a future wife, however, I hope you will approach this matter gently. It is not your scars that may frighten these women, but your cool approach. Please convey to my nephews, siblings, mother and father my warm greetings and expressions of longing. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond One day before he arrived in Storm's End

Brother, thank you for the books you sent me. Indeed, Maester Arryn's reflections on the origins of dragons are extremely interesting and throw new insights into the subject. I devoured this book in one day. As for your reflections on my future wife, as you know, to my frustration, Lord Borros' daughters have already shown me at the nuptials of Aegon and Helaena how little they have in their heads. They are desperate. And can there be anything worse than a desperate woman? In addition, Lord Borros hides his fifth daughter from me, or it is she who shows no interest in the fact that she could become the prince's wife. The choice between desperate women and a girl I am indifferent to seems demeaning and beneath my dignity. Nevertheless, I will do my duty. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Two days after Aemond arrived in Storm's End

Dear brother, I understand your dilemma and I guess that by the time my letter reaches you you will already be after your visit in Storm's End. I hope that everything goes well and I ask you to inform me of your decision. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Three days after he arrived in Storm's End

Brother, my visit in Storm's End was, how shall I put it, entertaining. Lord Borros thought he could pretend to me that he only had four daughters. I don't understand why he thought he would succeed in making a fool of me, but he has learned his lesson. I took from him his youngest child, his beloved treasure. She will become my wife. I guess you will want to understand my choice and what drove me, however, I am not sure I can explain it. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Week after Aemond arrived in Storm's End

Brother, Your words fill me with anxiety. Remember that whatever pain and grief fills your heart, this girl knows nothing about it. If you crush her, there will be nothing left of her. In King's Landing she will have no one but you. I would very much like your marriage to bring you joy, not disappointment. Always devoted to you, Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Week after he arrived in Storm's End

Brother, I wish to reassure you. I have no intention of harming her, of course, if she shows me the devotion, respect and obedience due to me. I also have no intention of humiliating her. Our mother sent away the servants who warmed my bed with my consent. I do not wish her to think, as my wife, that her honour is unimportant to me. Our mother has decided that in a week's time my future wife will arrive in King's Landing to acclimatise. Also devoted to you Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Two days before she arrived in Kings Landing

Brother, I welcome your words and our mother's decision with relief. I hope that your betrothed, upon her arrival in King's Landing, will meet all your expectations. Do not be overly strict with her. I am also sending you a list of books that I have recently read and think are worthy of recommendation: The Last Days of Maegor I the Cruel, Anonymous Gods of Old Valyria; Rites and beliefs, Maester Monas Always devoted to you, Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Four days after she arrived in Kings Landing

Brother, thank you for recommending these books. I spent my afternoon in the library today reading The Last Days of Maegor I the Cruel. I met my betrothed there, who freezes at the sight of me. I have to admit that, despite her submissive nature, she is not what I assumed. She's direct and doesn't use the overbearing curtness that ladies of the court are famous for. I take this to be her virtue, as I don't have to guess what she has on her mind. Besides, in King's Landing, unlike the attire she was wearing when I first saw her, she wears gowns in cuts I haven't seen before, with buff sleeves with her chemise sticking out from underneath. I'm assuming it's a garment from her homeland, as she only wears the colours of the Baratheons. To my contentment, since arriving in the Red Keep she has begun combing her hair into exquisite braids, a pleasure to my eye and her wordless sign of respect for our heritage. I have noticed that she has befriended Helaena, however, she does not socialise with the other ladies of the court, which I recognise as an evidence of her wisdom. I sincerely hope you will be able to attend our nuptials. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Three days before nuptials in the Great Sept

Dear Brother, from the words you have included in your letter, it seems that so far you are satisfied with your choice, which pleases me very much. I hope that your future wife and you will slowly grow closer to each other and find an understanding. Unfortunately, duties in the Citadel will not allow me to come to your nuptials and I write of this with great pain. However, I know that you, my brother, know and understand best what duty is and that you will comprehend my difficult position. I hope that you will forgive me and that you will keep me informed about how the whole ceremony went. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Morning after nuptials in the Great Sept

Brother, Your absence filled my heart with sadness on the day of my nuptials. As you know, being in the eye of the crowds makes me feel frustration and uncertainty, which only intensified throughout the ceremony. My wife endured it better than I did. I feared that our wedding night would make her cry and despair, however, nothing of the sort happened. She showed me respect and trust, which I tried to reciprocate. The presence of a stranger in my bed is odd and troublesome, however, I suspect I will get used to the change. With the blessing of the gods, my wife will soon give me an offspring and extend my lineage. Always devoted to you Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Five days after nuptials in the Great Sept

Brother, I also suffer from the fact that I was not able to be with you at your nuptials and meet your wife. However, I am very rejoiced by what you write about and my general feeling that your wife pleases you. Please tell our mother that in a few days she should receive a gift from me on the occasion of her name day, a beautiful prayer book made especially for her on my recommendation. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Six days after nuptials in the Great Sept

Brother, I must share with you an embarrassing anecdote concerning one of my wife's sisters. Before her family left, she came to my chamber in the evening, wanting to warm my bed. She was met with my violent response and I left it to my wife to decide what to do with her. My wife, however, took advantage of my condition and the fact that I had drunk several cups of wine. I allowed her to stay in my chamber for the night at her request, and she failed my trust by drawing words and reactions out of me for which I am ashamed. I decided to punish her by pushing her away until it become clear whether she is already expecting my child. In addition, our mother will, in a separate letter, convey her appreciation and thanks to you for your gift. The excellence of the workmanship and the illustrations and decorations of the prayer book are extremely beautiful and our mother is touched. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Two weeks after nuptials in the Great Sept

Brother, your words have worried me incredibly. I ask you not to act rashly. A wife's responsibility is to support her husband, and a husband should not separate himself from his wife with a wall. I hope and wish that you live to see your offspring as soon as possible. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Three weeks after nuptials in the Great Sept

Brother, I wish to reassure you. My wife and I have come to an agreement. On the advice of you, Ser Criston and my mother, I have decided to let my wife get closer to me. I decided that this would happen if she helped me with my daily routine instead of my servants. I expected her to feel humiliated by being put in such a role, but she seems content, so I have no reason to complain either. She carries out her tasks with a dedication and diligence I have not yet seen in any of my maids, nor does she pester me with conversation and gossip, so our time together is filled with peace and quiet. She has taken a special interest in the books you send me and has recently begun to read through a book on the Gods of Old Valyria. I notice in her a genuine interest in our heritage which pleases me. I am considering introducing her to the language of Old Valyria if she so wishes. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron One week before Vaemond Velaryon arrived in Kings Landing

Brother, Your words fill me with joy. We both know how much you have suffered in the past and all I want is for you to find the peace and fulfilment in your marriage that you deserve. Forgive me for taking so long to reply, however, I have been unwell and have been in bed over the last few days, unable to move or think. I suspect that it is a simple fatigue, however, I ask that you do not worry our mother for the time being and do not tell her about this. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Five days before Vaemond Velaryon arrived in Kings Landing

Brother, the news of your condition has worried me greatly. However, I know that you are surrounded by the most outstanding maesters in the world and I believe that they are giving you the care that you need. Please keep me informed of your state of health. I must also inform you of an interesting piece of information that has reached the Red Keep. Namely, Vaemond Velaryon is challenging Luke's rights to inherit the Driftmark. Strong boy got into a little trouble. Our whore-sister and her family will be arriving in King's Landing with Vaemond within the next few days. Despite my attempts, I find it increasingly difficult to hide the darkness of my heart and my advancing madness from my wife. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron One day before Vaemond Velaryon arrived in Kings Landing

Brother, I am recovering and getting back to strength. Your letter, however, has deeply disturbed me and I implore you to keep your anger and grief in control for the sake of our family and our mother, who cannot bear any more suffering, and also for the sake of your wife. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Two days after Vaemond Velaryon arrived in Kings Landing

Brother, I am writing to you this time at the request of our mother. Our father the King passed away two days ago in his sleep. According to our mother, his last will, which he confessed to her on his deathbed, was that our brother Aegon should sit on the Iron Throne. Yesterday he was crowned in front of me, my wife and the entire court in the Great Sept. Our brother wishes you to pay him tribute as ruler of the Seven Kingdoms as soon as possible and awaits your letter to that effect. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron One day before Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, is this true? Has our father truly changed his mind? Does this mean war? I desire nothing more than to return to the Red Keep immediately to support you. Tell me, what should I do? Your devoted brother, Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond One day before Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, do not return to the Red Keep. Stay in the Citadel. Our brother is sending me to Harrenhal against my requests to crush the Lords' uprising there, and he won't let me take my wife with me. I fear he has completely lost his mind. Send all your letters to Harrenhal and do not share what you know with anyone. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Three days after Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, in accordance with your will, I am sending a letter to Harrenhal and hope it reaches your hands. Mother has written to me about the uprising and the fact that Lord Strong is dead. What will happen now? What do you intend to do? Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Six days after Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, I'm afraid I'm sinking into increasing madness. The battles are prolonged, the warriors of the Northern Lords come out of the woods like rats at night, and no matter how many times I burn them, they return. Nor can I bear the thought that before my travel for Harrenhal I said words to my wife that I regret and am ashamed of. I left her a letter to which I received no reply. I fear that she has seen what I am and has lost hope that I can be saved. Without her by my side I collapse under the weight of my own darkness, the fire of Vhagar burning everything around me, including myself. I fight the recurring thought to beg her in a letter to come to Harrenhal in the middle of the war just to be by my side. It scares me how selfish I am, brother. Aemond −

---------------------

Daeron Ten days after Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, Your letter filled me with sadness and despair. I beg you not to give in to the darkness and doubt that surrounds your heart. I am sure that your wife understands your suffering and will certainly forgive you. However, is it wise to bring her to Harrenhal, will she be safe there? Please keep me informed of how things are progressing and remember that I am at your and my brother-king's every call. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Two weeks after Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, against your advice, in a gesture of despair, I sent a letter to my wife and she, to my relief, came and joined me. She fled the Red Keep for me. She forgave me. Now that I have her by my side again I feel that I have regained my senses and I hope that, with the blessing of the gods, the matter of the whole uprising will soon come to an end. Aemond −

---------------------

Aemond Two weeks after Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, I am not sure which time I am starting to write you this letter. I am ashamed because you warned me and I disobeyed you. The gods have finally punished me for my envy, selfishness and vanity. They punished me in the most cruel way, making me watch my uncle's dragon fire burn the body of my innocent wife. A small part of her body suffered, and I try to console myself with the thought. She was saved by the Witch of Harrenhal, who treated her wounds in time, however I know I will never get her affection or her warm gaze back. How would I live on without her gentle touch that soothed my nerves, brother? How would I live on without her soft body by my side, without her understanding gaze, without her reassuring words of comfort? I was dead before I married her, and I feel as if I should die again.

---------------------

Daeron Three weeks after Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, what happened? Uncle Daemon attacked Harrenhal? What is happening now? I beg you to calm down − I am sure that you and your wife will find comfort together in this terrible and distressing situation that has befallen her. I wait impatiently for your answer and your orders. Daeron −

---------------------

Aemond Three weeks after Aemond was sent to Harrenhal

Brother, join me in Harrenhal and support me. Aemond −

---------------------

Taglist 1

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @diosademuerte @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics @tempt-ress @blairfox4 @crazymusicgirl104 @ahristata @menaosama @ladywin17 @queenofshinigamis @rae-seri @dark-night-sky-99

208 notes · View notes

pessimysticrw · 2 months

Text

The Watcher DLC - Personal Dissection

[SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAYED BASE GAME/DLC] Oh goodness me, Videocult has decided to drop a nuke on my already rotted brain due to this game and now I shall dissect this yummy meal bit by bit like the picky eater I am (in a good way this time though). And yall are coming with me because I said so. Really, this is just a great place for me to get my thoughts in order... cough. A lot of this is speculation! If I can find anything confirmed, I will try and write about it when I can.

Steam DLC Description

Let's start with the obvious- this basically confirms new creatures, regions, etc. This place seems to be in a completely different area than both the base game and Downpour slugcats, with new creatures to boot. I will go over the revealed regions/screenshots in more detail further down.

The descriptions states "the world beneath your feet cracks and crumbles", and while this could be linked to the Void Sea, the thumbnail art and font for the DLC's steam page and trailer depicts the Rot, and I am doubtful such an obvious detail would be thrown in there without it being present. Rot is only present where iterators are, and the only iterator we know of (in detail) to have the Rot is Five Pebbles, who got it by trying to rewrite himself. SRS gave him the pearl, but whoever wrote it is unknown, and I am highly doubtful it is 5P or SRS where this slugcat takes place in. It could be a pre-existing iterator like NSH/SOS (doubtful, but i suppose NSH would explain how Hunter got the rot if that is canon), a new one that also read the information that 5P and SRS did, or maybe even the one that originally wrote it that failed the experiment themself. This is a lot of speculation though and we will only really know for sure when more information is revealed. Take all of this with a grain of salt! I am just rambling possibilities.

New Regions

New regions are seen via screenshots on the DLC's Steam page. I will be attaching the screenshots here as well as what I speculate on what they may be/entail.

Starting with these two regions here, as it seems to match the most with the thumbnail art. At first I thought it was the foggy region below, but upon closer inspection this wall-like region incorporates more blue colors, fog/clouds are present, and would make the most sense for the rot to be present if this is indeed an iterator's wall.

Credits to shrinkshooter on Reddit for the enhanced image to the right.

This region looks reminiscent of 5P Memory Crypts, only in daylight. Whether this region serves a similar purpose to ancients is unknown. I considered the possibility of it being in a similar placement like 5P, but I am unsure if that would make sense due to the fact that 5P's shaded citadel is underneath his superstructure- hence why it is so dark in that region- when it clearly isn't here. (It could be completely separate from and not relating anything to Shaded Citadel entirely though!)

Mysterious looking underground region filled with green water. It's water guys. It better be water. Please no more acid, I'm begging.

This area immediately made me think of Spearmaster's start of their campaign, or it could be something reminiscent to Moon's Submerged Superstructure. Drainage System/Undergrowth also comes to mind.

Two desert-like regions are depicted here! While some speculation on the region on the right is it being a snow biome- I personally believe that this may be in face a dust/sand storm. Dust storms were planned during Metropolis' development in Downpour, but were scrapped in favor for the day/night cycle instead. Additionally, the snow particles present in Saint's campaign look drastically different compared to what is shown here. Additionally, there is Developer Commentary that talks about these dust storms for Metropolis. The dust storm effect looks different compared to what is shown, but it could have been possibly reworked to suit the region's look. Who knows though! Could just indeed be snow- but the entire area for this campaign looks to be generally warmer.

This region looks reminiscent to Sky Islands from 5P. Something to note is the lack of nearby iterator cities. This could mean two things: this campaign takes place far into the future, with surrounding iterators having already collapsed. Or...

It could be located on an desert island, right next to an ocean. Where all the water could have gone from this area will honestly be up to speculation until more information presents itself- however the seemingly coral-like structure to this region seems to point to this. It would also explain the lack of visible iterator cities in the background of the previous mentioned Sky Islands reminiscent region.

Additionally in one of the thumbnails for the DLC, water is present below the slugcat. (Then again, rain/water is present for all of em besides Saint eh?)

Additional Notes

An echo-like effect is seen around the slugcat in the previously mentioned thumbnail, as well as in the ripples in the water around it

#rain world #rw slugcat #rw nightcat #rainworld dlc #the watcher

21 notes · View notes

uchihashisuii · 11 months

Text

to listen, to suffer. (to entrust unto tomorrow)

Summary: "Have you slept?" Joshua asks, voice hushed as to not break the facade of peace that permeates the air. Because of course he begins with that; Phoenix is ever the healer, the caregiver, the protector. Concerned only for the well-being of those around him and not a whit for his own ills or pains. | Spoilers abound!

Pairing: Dion Lesage/Joshua Rosfield

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1994

Content warning for introspection, romance, character study, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, and a first kiss long overdue

Author’s Note: rises from the ashes HEH with some brand new nonsense. you ever see two characters you Know are gonna be your faves and you're like. oh i'm gonna make them kiss. and then you discover there's actual substance for aforementioned faves and why they should kiss??? yeah as close to rapture as i'm ever gonna get i wanna thank not only god but jesus for all the joshua and dion content

also the summary lied to you its actually the morning but listen. listen. sunrise is more romantic than sunset fight me on that. plus using eve just sounded better

title is from answers from ffxiv cause i have a disease

Ao3 link

-----

With eyes turned eastward, Dion watches the darkened haze that drapes the world, a startling reflection of that which envelops his heart. Hours, days, weeks; time passes, but even years hence the results of his patricide and his ensuing loss of control will continue to dog his heels, to haunt his every thought.

The clawing shadows of agony swirl around him, enshrouding him; a burden he refuses to allow a moment's respite. For to refuse it, to ignore it - would be as forgetting what he had done. The blood of his father, his people, his home. Red-drenched gauntlets and the wind beneath Bahamut's wings buffeted by the anguished cries of those he swore to protect. Dion resolved himself to ridding Sanbreque of its poison, and instead took that which made her complete. Shining citadels and grand streets could be rebuilt - but one cannot hope to restore the laughter and strength of a people, the love of a father; on Dion's heart will the guilt ever weigh down.

He refuses to dwell on that which he has lost. No, his mind turns only to what he has taken. A home, a people, an emperor. Grieving stars shine through the haze, pinpricks of light weeping for what has been done. There is nothing he could do, no apology or deed grand enough to encapsulate the void of his sorrow, of his remorse.

Dion is not naive nor self-absorbed enough to think throwing himself unto his lance would absolve him, would pay the impossible due of his transgressions. He darent even hope for the opportunity. The unthinkable deeds have been done, and never once would he think himself worthy of forgiveness. There are none left in the ruins of his home even left to offer it. All that remains is the steadfast hope, the will to bring a better tomorrow, reflected in the haunted eyes of Phoenix and Ifrit. And it will cost his life -he hopes, he prays it does- but still he will take to the skies as Bahamut once more, grief punctuating every beat of his wings, as he bears on his back the hope for a future he does not deserve to see.

-----

Joshua finds him still deep in contemplation in the early hours, before the first rays of dawn could break across the horizon. There is a chill dancing about the air, breath fanning forward in pale wisps as they stand in comfortable silence, content to simply gaze out upon the world gone so utterly, ruinously wrong.

He tries not to dwell on it. Where heartbreak threatens to split him in twain, he remembers there is hope. In those surrounding him, in those that look to Ifrit and those whose hands may shape a brighter future. Maybe, even, some hope for him; just a little.

"Have you slept?" Joshua asks, voice hushed as to not break the facade of peace that permeates the air. Because of course he begins with that; Phoenix is ever the healer, the caregiver, the protector. Concerned only for the well-being of those around him and not a whit for his own ills or pains.

He cares too much for one so young, Dion remembers thinking when they met as children. This small boy, this Dominant of Fire, who kneeled in the dirt and coughed from the dust dispersed. Only stopping long enough to look annoyed about it, before using his abilities as Phoenix to heal the broken wing of a bird.

Who heals the healer? he thinks now. Certainly nobody he would even allow, insisting others be placed before himself. Dion believes, wholeheartedly, that he'd have made a fine Duke, were things - different. A man he would have been proud to stand beside, uniting their lands and ushering in an era of peace.

He'd left whimsical dreams behind long ago, the only thoughts left remaining were ones of how to ensure Sanbreque's victory and the survival of his people. But something about Joshua -his earnestness, his optimism, his very presence- makes Dion want to believe. Makes him think he's worthy of it.

"A scant couple of hours," is all Dion says in reply once he pulls himself from spiraling thoughts, unable to lie to one so gentle. Gazing out over the calm waters surrounding Ifrit's hideaway in staunch refusal to meet eyes too kind to be cast in his direction. To stare too long would prove his undoing, in more ways than he is comfortable putting a name to. Still, Joshua moves in his periphery, until the press of a bony elbow brushes into his forearm. When he glances a look, just as he expected, Dion cannot look away.

He's beautiful, in the calm of morning. No expectations, no fuss or hassle. The wind tussling his mussed hair, pale eyes bright with something warm. He belongs here, Dion thinks somewhat softly to himself. With the gossamer glow of sunrise bathing him in light, throwing his delicate angles into sharp relief. Impossibly long lashes of burnished gold brushing against the tops of his cheeks, mouth curving up into a secret smile that has Dion turning his attention swiftly elsewhere.

It is a struggle, sometimes, to see Joshua. Unlearning habits take time, but Dion works at it even amidst the fire and flame. His entire life Dion has been defined by simple measures; he is a Dominant, he is crown prince, he is dragoon commander. He is Bahamut, and not simply Dion. A symbol of light, a means to protect the empire. Faceless. A beacon. Simple.

Joshua is not simple. And yet he is; he's merely a man, holding fast to his convictions and his heart. A man with a sweet smile and gentle hands, who loves as fierce as any wildfire. A kind man, who paradoxically keeps any and all at arm's length in the hope that weakness and vulnerability are kept carefully hidden beneath those carefree smiles.

It comes full circle as all at once the taste in his mouth is reminiscent of the ash that blanketed Sanbreque. Dion is no longer any of these things, and those childhood fantasies of finding someone who saw through the gilded silver veneer of an imperial Dominant to unfurl the man trapped beneath - perhaps now, at the end of all things, there is the chance to simply be. Be understood, be - Dion.

Simple, he thinks with a bitter quirk of his mouth, just as I wanted.

"It's a lovely morning," Joshua remarks at his side, leaning just so until he can brush his shoulder against Dion's. Expertly wielding word and action to pull Dion from distraction; his frown shifts into something softer, something worthy of a serene early morning at the side of someone precious.

When he turns to respond, it is to the sight of Joshua looking to him and not the view. Something clenches just beneath his ribs, and it is only in the quietude of an unassuming morning that Dion feels the world around him fall away, locking gaze with a still-smiling Phoenix.

Dion was never quite able to see himself in Joshua; too starkly different in method if not desire. But perhaps they're more similar than he first surmised, evidenced in the way the younger man studies him awash in the glow of sunrise, in the understanding clear as glass in those lovely eyes. The pressure that comes part and parcel in being fundamentally nothing more than a tool for your people, be it as weapon or shield. The trauma of a lost home, lost family. The guilt of bearing responsibility for so much loss, so much death and destruction. Dion finds himself reflected in those eyes, that have seen and wrought as much pain as he has. But even still, so too is there love, and acceptance, and maybe even peace.

"Lovely indeed," Dion whispers, eyes still locked on Joshua's and soft words nearly lost to the wind.

There are no further words, but none are quite needed. A grin, beautiful with closed eyes and full of teeth and tender joy, breaks across Joshua's face like the dawn. He laughs, very nearly shyly, and brings a hand to cover his mouth. As though he were embarrassed of his mirth, as though he wished to hide from Dion's searching expression.

It is not a morning for hiding, nor is it one for things left unsaid. Dion doesn't expect to see the next rising of the sun, and shrugs off the idea of his own indulgence. The world and his life have gone to hell, yet the rise of a new day is stunning to behold. Paling very nearly to the pink that dusts Joshua's cheeks, to the way nerves and delight seem to wash from him in near-tangible waves.

He's beautiful enough to break hearts, Dion thinks. In face and in soul both, in equal measure. His heart must feel much as he does right now; warmth from the gentle light of the sun, filtering through clouds to bathe them, for a moment, in something greater.

Dion feels nearly as shocked as Joshua looks when, not a heartbeat later, his gloved hand moves to curve over Joshua's elbow. The thrum of awareness carries between them, and yet again the world has gone quiet. Breath held, a moment in limbo; anticipation gathers heady around them. Dion cannot move further, cannot make his mouth work to tell Joshua above everything else I see you, I hear you. As you see me, as you hear me.

The linger does not last, Dion jolted from his yet once more spiraling thoughts to find Joshua cupping his cheek. Hand bare, his skin softer than silk. Thumb rubbing small circles beneath Dion's eye, lips parted and something familiarly unspoken dancing on the tip of his tongue. He runs warm, Dion realizes. Some quirk of Phoenix's power, perhaps; or maybe there is some merit to the rumors that all those from Rosalith have fire in their blood. Or perhaps, he thinks, when Joshua leans forward to close what distance lingers between them; perhaps it is simply Joshua. Sunlight manifest.

The press of his mouth to Dion's feels startling natural. Much like in all other aspects Joshua is reserved, but not timid, when he kisses. Testing the waters, searching for an answer in Dion's reverent silence. And silent he remains; breath stopped short, a gentle gasp stolen with the rush of his pulse. Loud in his own ears, Dion hesitates for barely half a moment before he allows himself to simply feel.

Eyes slipping shut, Dion moves until he grips tight, certain, to Joshua's slim waist. Pulling him close with desperate, grasping fingertips until they are pressed tight enough they threaten to fold together into one. It's heady, made more intoxicant by the way he can feel more than hear the soft moan from Joshua, heat and desire making Dion's head spin. He breaks the kiss, basking and breathing, before pressing another, and another, to Joshua's pliant and waiting mouth.

He doesn't question, doesn't hesitate. Fate and the future are ever fickle, and whether he deserves even a moment's respite in a question he refuses to entertain at present. Instead Dion savors it, when he grips tight to the hair at Joshua's nape just to hear that sweet sound once more. Perhaps there is nothing that awaits him this day save further agony, perhaps only a quiet death is all he deserves. But for now he has Joshua in his arms, against his mouth. Swallowing down Dion's every small sound, holding tight and refusing to let go. He is no longer shy, no longer gentle; Joshua licks into his mouth and every slick glide of their tongues has Dion falling just that little bit further.

The sun finishes its ascent, blinding even to Dion's closed eyes. The warmth that surrounds him, that resides within him, echoes and builds with every harried pulse of his desperate heart, resonating like the beat of a firebird's wings.

#phoenixflare #dion lesage #joshua rosfield #dion x joshua #joshua x dion #ffxvi #final fantasy xvi #final fantasy 16 #jules writes

32 notes · View notes

scorchieart · 2 years

Text

Home Sweet Homesick | AO3

Characters: Clavis Lelouch, Chevalier Michel

Genre: Angst, Comfort.

Summary: Two brothers. One month. The final autumn before Bloodstained Rose Day.

Word Count: 5.8k (grab a mug of your preferred warm beverage, friends)

A/N: It has come to my attention that I have never written a fic with these two interacting. Yes, I am shocked, too. This is a franken-fall-fic for the following challenges, many warm hugs to the awesome writers who set them up!

Prompts:

Getting warm in their sweater - Cozytober hosted by @randonauticrap

"Your hands are cold." - Pumpkins & Fireplaces 2022 hosted by @chaosangel767

Treats - Fall Fluff & Autumn Angst CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 & @violettduchess

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, mild descriptions of injuries and pain (no blood), mild Clavis route spoilers.

“Recent activity west constitutes a growing concern, however full-blown mobilization of troops would be premature at this juncture—”

“Yaaaawn!”

“—No significant changes to report. Although such an extended pause may suggest possibility of attack—”

“Sn-ore!”

“—Our swiftest horse and rider are prepared to head out on-call with detailed instructions, should any perturbing developments arise—”

“Some perturbing development better arise in the next five seconds before I die of boredom!”

Tent flaps crack as a sharp gust bursts in unannounced, causing the stacks of paper and envelopes piled on top of our makeshift oakwood desk to flutter longingly underneath the stones I arrested them with. Three of the four candles illuminating my side blow out instantly, but the last one manages to hold on to its wicker as the mini tempest fades out as quickly as it started. It flickers feebly before bouncing back to its previous height, as though the wind was but a slight inconvenience.

I want nothing more than to grab that candlestick and plunge it straight into the desk.

But I don’t do that. I straighten my back, brush the windswept hair out of my face, and assess the damage. Luckily I had the foresight to restopper the ink bottle, because it was rolling halfway across the table by the time I spotted it. I manage to snatch it and my quill before they tumble over the edge and lay them atop the slightly wrinkled letter I was penning. Oh well, wrinkled doesn’t mean illegible, and I would know that better than anyone. Besides, the thing will get folded and stuffed into an envelope anyway. What’s one more crease in its cap?

I lightly tap the last word I wrote and lift my finger. No stains. Amazing how some good came from that nimble nimbus, considering all the damage its friends did to our tent. A large dollop of water trickles through a rip in the top and drops onto my hair, a casual reminder of the rainstorm that bucketed our camp this afternoon. I shake my head and peek through the still-swaying tent flaps to the citadel stationed at the bottom of the hill.

Golden fireplaces and candelabras illuminate the dozens of windows scattered across the fortress walls. Up here they look like tiny fireflies waiting to be captured.

I would like to go down there and catch them.

But I am technically still on duty. Yes, being a scribe is a duty of mine, and one I take rather seriously, despite what some nosy naysaying ministers may claim. Despite the fact that I prefer to be buried beneath a stack of dry blankets than wet letters, next to one of those shimmering fireflies. Despite the fact that our shabby little tent is one gust away from flying off to oblivion.

I mean Obsidian.

Either? Both? Beyond?

I do not like our shabby little tent.

But it doesn’t matter what I like because Chevalier likes it. Or rather, he likes its location. High above the tallest hill, the perfect vantage point overlooking both Rhodolite and Obsidian’s movements. Close enough to the citadel to relay any new perturbing developments as soon as they occur. Far enough from the border to dispel any accusations of militaristic intent.

Were this hilltop not the size of my closet, I bet Chevalier would move here permanently.

I wish Chevalier would move here permanently.

“Though it would be ardent to begin preparations at present, for the tides may turn mere moments after this letter leaves our base—”

“Now hold on, I haven’t caught up yet!” I say, quickly picking up my quill again. Did he say “preparations for presents”? I didn’t realize we were throwing a party. Yves’s birthday was a few weeks ago, but he’s back at the castle.

This makes no sense. And “tummies may turn”? Jin would sooner swear off women than Chevalier utter the word tummy in any context. Though mine has been spinning in circles since we started nearly two hours ago. It is long past midnight now, and I’d really like to lie down. But if Chevalier isn’t tired, neither am I.

I’ll just write down my best guess.

Like the candle, Chevalier only paused for a moment then instantly resumed his blathering as soon as the wind ceased. It doesn’t surprise me, honestly. I’ve seen my brother cut his dinner with a steak knife, stab an assassin with said knife, and chew his brisket all in the same breath.

And people say I’m the batty one.

Keeping my head hanging low over the paper, I steal a peek at Chevalier at the other end of the tent. He twirls a red stone figurine of a soldier in his left hand as he studies the large map laid out on the table, his back towards me. Not even his hair looks disturbed by the wind, and for some reason that angers me more than his refusal to slow down enough for me to catch up.

“Stop that,” he snaps, plunking the red soldier on the map with a sharp thwack.

“Stop what? Writing for your lazy behind?” I say.

“That nettlesome tapping. It is disrupting my thoughts.”

I unconsciously halt tapping the quill. Now do you understand what a blessing it is that I am still sane, dear reader?

“Well, you’re disrupting my process with your ugly mug,” I say, resuming the tapping, louder this time. I wish I could see his face right now. His eye is probably twitching like it does when I interrupt his reading, and that always makes it worth the mental trudge it takes to see him.

I will not be rewarded for my efforts tonight, it seems.

“You’re welcome to pick up where I left off if my way bothers you so much,” I say.

Chevalier hums and reaches for another figurine from a box. This time he pulls out a black one.

“And what would you do then to occupy yourself?” he asks, flicking the tip of the soldier’s miniature sword with his finger. “Tap your quill? Twiddle your thumbs? Sleep? When you’ve hardly managed to catch a wink this past month?”

And whose fault is that? I want to say, but I force my lips into a tight grin instead. A gentleman does not complain when faced with adversity. He powers through with grace and dignity and an unyielding smile.

But my cheeks are seriously starting to bear the toll of weeks upon weeks of these fake smiles. And my eyes have long since run out of tears following all those late-night jumpscares whenever I do manage to fall asleep. And my limbs are screaming from the grueling daily training rounds from dawn to dusk. Even if the days are getting shorter, they’re getting colder as well.

And I haven’t told Chevalier this, but earlier today I sprained my wrist while sword training. It really isn’t that big of a deal, to be honest. I was only squeezing in some extra swings before training officially began because a nasty nightmare woke me up too soon again. I figured I’d practice on the ancient oak tree we secured our tent to, and maybe set up a scenario where I’d “accidentally” sever the ropes and let the thing collapse on top of snoozing Chevalier, but I ended up tripping over one of the massive roots in the dark and tumbling down the hill.

He just had to choose the tallest hill.

“You are thinking of something asinine again,” says Chevalier.

“Definitely not,” I say, turning back to the letter. He is very lucky I injured my illegible hand.

I stuff said hand into my pocket and slowly stretch my fingers one by one, starting from the thumb, but my index finger only makes it halfway up before I have to muffle a grunt from the pain. I masterfully mask it by coughing into the crook of my good arm.

Another thwack of a figure placement, and Chevalier is back to reciting his correspondence. If he is upset that I just coughed on his sweater, he doesn’t make an effort to show it.

Yes, this is Chevalier’s sweater I am wearing. My shirt is all in tatters now after a certain fall down a hill (that I cannot believe I am bringing up twice in the same sitting). And my backup shirt is currently hanging outside, still dripping with this afternoon’s downpour. Chevalier took one look at me after I returned from practice and tossed me the sweater before I could get even one foot in the tent.

How very considerate of him, forcing his exhausted and sopping younger brother to change outdoors after sunset in October so his precious maps and documents wouldn’t get drenched.

I think I’ll leave a great big sneeze in the collar next, just to show how much I appreciate his prospective.

But I’d end up inhaling more wool than medically recommended before Chevalier would ever bother to tell me to stop.

I’m actually still in shock to even be wearing it, to tell the truth. I figured it was buried at the bottom of his closet half-eaten by moths. It had been years since I’d last seen the thing, when his grandfather gave it to him at his mother’s funeral. One of those events I figured Chevalier deemed not worth remembering.

But I remember.

I remember the way Chevalier stood in front of her grave after they buried her, pale and stiff and dry-eyed, like a flawless stone figurine. I remember how the Lord Michel walked up beside him and almost put his hand on his shoulder, but pulled away at the last second when Chevalier turned to look at him. And I remember how he looked back. How he shakily drew the folded sweater from his other arm and trembled as he presented it to his grandson, a boy not half his size.

“She’d want you to keep warm,” he’d said. I remember how cold his words sounded that day.

I remember how cold my mother’s hand was, too.

“Ow!”

The quill clatters on the desk as I furiously rub at my temple. When I open my eyes, a black knight lays atop my letter, shimmering dully in the single candlelight.

“What was that for?” I growl.

“You misspelled ‘accommodate’.”

“What?” I push the knight aside and count the letters of the last word I wrote. Two c’s and one m stare back at me in glossy ebony ink. I glance back at Chevalier. His hand is rummaging through the box again, but his eyes never lift from the map.

I pick up the quill and start to squeeze a mini m by the first when a second figure bounces off my head.

“Stop that!” I yell.

“Start over.”

“No way, it’s just a tiny fix. And I was almost done!” I hold the nearly-filled page up to him, but he still refuses to look.

“Then you should have been more attentive.”

“Who cares? It’s just going to Leon.”

“With my signature.” He slams another figure on the map with finality.

But I’m not finished.

“You rewrite it then.”

No response.

My seat flies back as I stand, but my cheek is pressed against the dirt before it reaches the ground.

My wrists are trapped and suspended in the air, but this time I can’t hide my roars of pain. They’d be louder I’m sure, but the knee jabbing into my back limits the airflow into my lungs.

My vision spins. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to breathe deeply through my nose. Wet, molding tent mixed with the unwashed stench of two teenage boys who haven’t bathed in weeks burns my nostrils, but years of experience taught me this is the fastest way to calm my nerves in these situations. Years and years and years of experience. My head is still going fuzzy though, and I can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the exhaustion.

I pry my stinging eyes open and focus on the closest thing to me. The candlestick rolls a few inches away, the shape of my clenched fingers imprinted in the wax column, its flame still burning.

I must look positively feral, but no more feral than the beast pinning me down.

“I expected more,” says Chevalier.

His fingers dig under the sleeves and into my wrists as he yanks, pulling my face a few inches off the ground. I gasp like I’ve just resurfaced from a lake, and crane my neck as far back as I can to meet his piercing stare. He’s waiting for an explanation.

His palms are like ice, and my teeth chatter as I bite back the urge to scream.

“Your hands are c-cold.”

That’s it? One month of endless belittling, cold-shoulders, and sleeping outdoors. My fingers are brittle from writing dozens of letters. My elbows and knees bruised from constant repairs to this tent. My hand drips with searing wax from my latest failed payback attempt. And the best I can come up with is your hands are cold?

I expected more, too.

He stares a bit more, longer than he has all day, before finally releasing me. I fall back to the ground and bury my face in my collar —Chevalier’s sweater collar— heaving breaths in and out my nose until my head stops spinning. It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually push myself onto my knees and inspect the damage. I had grabbed the candlestick with my good hand without thinking, and my palm is now almost entirely covered in the waxy sticky stuff. At least it’s quickly solidifying in this cold, but I don’t dare peel it off yet. I might end up pulling off skin, too.

My injured wrist, on the other hand, looks even darker than it did this morning, with splotches of blue and purple climbing up my forearm. I hold my breath and nudge it with a finger, but to my surprise, I don’t feel any pain. In fact, I don’t feel anything, except for the sensation of frigid digits tapping my skin.

“Get that checked and be back by noon,” Chevalier calls. Another surprise, he’s not at his map but at my desk corner, chair back upright, scratching away with my quill at blinding speed.

“Noon?” I repeat. “You mean tomorrow?”

“I mean six hours from now. The numbness will wear off soon, and you’ll hassle the medics with your obnoxious blubbering if you do not hurry.” As if on cue, the first specs of dawn trickle in through the tent flaps.

“I’m not missing training,” I say. “If you’re going, so am I.”

“There is nothing more foolish than a dying man demanding poison over cure.”

“I’m not dying!” I march over and pull my good arm sleeve up to my elbow. “See? You’re just being dramatic.”

Again he refuses to look my way, instead focusing on folding the paper he was writing on into thirds. He retrieves the fallen candlestick, elegantly prepares a stamp, and, as soon as the seal cools, stacks it and the other letters I prepared onto my outstretched hand.

“You will deliver the post and return in time to memorize this new battle formation before afternoon practice commences. With the correct hand bandaged,” he warns, pushing past me to his maps. “Do not fall short of my expectations again.” He picks a red soldier from the box and resumes his planning.

I push through the flaps before the thwack reaches my ears.

Even though the tent is meager at best, it still mostly protects us from the harsh winds that pound every night. The approach of dawn hampers the air, but a brisk rush still uncomfortably tickles down my spine as I approach the edge of the hill. The numbness in my hand starts to fade as I stare down at those jagged rocks, almost goading me to trip again, and I back up until my boot bumps the oak tree.

Chevalier did say I have six hours.

I stuff the letters in my armpit and start climbing the tree, slowly as it is still quite dark out and my hands aren’t exactly in best form. I also try to keep quiet, in case Chevalier won’t approve of my little recess.

Once I reach the highest branch that can support my weight, I throw my legs over the edge and lean my cheek against the trunk. It is cool and covered in morning frost; a welcoming sensation to my welting face. Not so much to my tense thighs, but if I learned one thing on this trip it is to hold on to any good happenstances because they are rare to come by. Or last long.

I pull the letters out again and straighten them. Leon’s is first, a tiny detailed rose drawn directly underneath his perfectly-penned name. That’s the code we came up with for documents that need to be read with high urgency. Chevalier likes his papers to be ordered by importance, both outgoing and incoming, and as I leaf through the rest I see he’s arranged the next one to Sariel, followed by Jin, and then to various nobles and ministers back at the capitol.

I sometimes wonder, if I wasn’t Chevalier’s shadow, could my letters top his piles?

My skin prickles with envy. He isn’t even the king, so why must everything be under his thumb? The land, the people, and now the words. Why not let these papers be picked up by autumn winds, like the golden leaves of the oak, with no drive or direction other than away from here? Embarking on a journey unknown, a glorious adventure beyond the confines of their pages, full of twists and turns and loop de loops never before scrivened by man. In the infinite realms of possibility, there exists a universe where they all land exactly where intended. But equally likely, they also may end up at the most inopportune destination.

I spread the envelopes like a hand of cards toward the Obsidianite border, a gentle wind growing from behind.

It’s really not so different from Rhodolite. We each have rocks and grass and bushes. Storms hound us both, the rising sun does not discriminate, and we both settle at night under the same starry blanket sky. This little sample of land shows even more, with our matching fortresses and battle posts, and there’s a high hilltop mirroring our own. It even has its own matching oak tree, though while mine still brims with flittering leaves of reds and browns, theirs stands thin and bare. So bare, it is impossible to miss the dark figure seated on the top branch.

Frostbite stabbing my thighs jumpstarts my senses, and I manage to hook my leg onto a knot in the trunk before the shock sends me tumbling down. I hug the letters and straighten my shoulders, looking back at my tree twin. How long has he been there? Has he been watching me? There’s quite a bit of foliage surrounding me. Does he even know I'm here?

I tentatively stretch my free leg, both to see if he’d respond and to encourage blood flow in case I need to make a hasty exit. A minute passes with nothing, but as soon as I start to lower my leg, a shadowy appendage protrudes from the figure.

So he can see me.

I raise my arm. This time the figure waves back almost instantly. Could I interpret that as neighborly? I don’t want to raise my voice in case Chevalier investigates. Instead I shrug my shoulders and wag my head from side to side. My neck is still sore from Chevalier’s little “rebuttal” earlier, but I hope the message is still understandable.

What do you want?

Another unresponsive minute goes by before the figure raises both arms. The first points a finger at me. The second beckons in his direction.

I look over my shoulder as though I expect someone else to be there. This can’t be serious, is he asking me to cross the border? The Obsidianite border? When we are at the cusp of war? Does this guy even know who I am?

I don’t have the time to conjure a reply before I hear my name called from below.

“Well met, Prince Clavis!”

So much for that last question. And for keeping Chevalier in the dark.

I scan my surroundings and locate a horseman at the base of the hill, waving a scarlet flag with a rose up at me. The postman has arrived.

For the first time on this trip, apart from the daily workouts, my palms pool with sweat. But this is a different kind of perspiration. Chevalier could pop out any minute, and my head whirs with what to say back to the stranger across the border before he does. Er—sign. Sorry, now’s not a good time? I’ll think about it? Can we talk later?

Do I even want to continue this conversation? I jerk my head back toward Obsidian, but the branch is just as bare as the rest of the tree.

“Is everything alright, my prince?” the postman calls, turning the direction I’m facing. “Is something happening across the border?”

“No, no. Everything’s fit as a fiddle! Just watching the sunrise,” I say, fumbling out of the tree. No light emerges from the tent, and I quickly poke my head in to confirm Chevalier’s sleeping form settled in a chair by his desk of maps. He lets out a long snore, and I let out a long sigh of relief.

After a slow descent of the hillside (I will not fall for the same fault twice in a row), the postman and I greet each other and exchange our stacks.

“I am very glad I ran into you, Prince Clavis!” His voice is cheery, despite the fact that he no doubt traveled the entire night. He isn’t originally from the capitol, I have everyone’s names and faces memorized there, but the flag he bears is reserved only for envoys from the royal palace. He looks about my age, with modest build and eyes not yet marred by the horrors of the battlefield. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say this is his first mission this close to the border.

“You are glad?” I ask.

“Indeed! I was instructed to hand-deliver those letters to Prince Chevalier. I feared it would be a great impertinence on my part to address His Highness personally, so I attempted to leave the letters with the general. However I was shocked to hear that you two were not staying at the fort! I was told your location was classified, but I really wanted to make sure I completed my first delivery. I never would have imagined royalty sleeping in a tent mid-autumn, of all places!”

Called it, but all I say is, “You and I both, lad.”

“But this could not be more perfect! I can trust you to pass these off to Prince Chevalier, then? Master Sariel said it is extremely important that he reads his letter as soon as humanly possible.”

I see now. This could not be more perfect because he ran into Chevalier’s middle man instead of the man himself. I stretch my cheeks into that wide grin and give him a polite nod. The boy looks pleased with himself as he bows and marches to his horse, and I take advantage of his turned back to drop my smile and peek at who’s top-pile today.

The deep purple seal pops in the faint light of dawn, rays sliding up and down the swerving curves of the embossed serpent like ethereal liquid, but it is the text on the other side of the envelope that locks my attention. Chevalier’s full name is elegantly printed in bold black. Below it, scripted in an equally flawless hand, are two roses.

My breath catches in my throat as I grip the paper tighter. The ink on the petals is slightly smudged, as though it was handed off seconds after drawn. Never before have I seen two roses, neither sent nor received, and the thought of what news they bear freezes the blood in my veins even quicker than the weather. Are we officially at war with Obsidian? Was a meeting held while we were away? Has Jade or Benitoite made a move, too? Or is it something domestic? Have the people finally started to revolt against this endless back and forth? Has something happened to the king? Has something happened to my brothers?

That last thought drives a final icicle through my chest. My eyesight blurs and my legs start to give way, but both are locked back in place as something large is shoved into my arms. It is still too dark to make out what it is, but I immediately register the residual heat it dissipates.

“And here’s the final package!” the boy says. I blink several times before I can make out the shape of the wooden crate. It is about the size of my torso, light as a practice sword, and feels like a tiny oven pressed against my chest. “It’s the other extremely important cargo piece.” He ends with a wink, mounts his horse, and departs before I have the chance to ask anything else.

My first instinct is there’s something alive in there, and I slowly lower the crate to the ground to not startle (or infuriate) it. It may be asleep, but there are no abrupt movements as I observe the box from all angles. If whatever it is was alive, it is highly suspect that it could survive the trip from the palace with only three tiny breathing holes. And the soury-sweet smell wafting out from them could not belong to a carcass.

There is no identification on the box, and I pull out the stack of letters again to solve this mystery. Sariel’s letter deadpans me with a scowl, almost like its author would, and I shuffle it to the bottom. It won’t make a difference if Chevalier reads it right this second or after I’ve figured out what’s in this crate. Each successive letter is from some general or marquess or duke, no doubt begging Chevalier for some fatuous favor because none are marked with roses, and I nearly resolve to just prying the crate open myself when a glint of pale pink catches my eye.

I grasp the final envelope in both hands and hold it up to the steadily rising sun, but my eyes are not playing tricks as the delicate figure of a cat shines back.

Why would Yves write to Chevalier?

Again, no roses adorn this letter, but I pull out my pocket knife and carefully lift the seal from the paper. I can practically hear Sariel squalling at me through the mouth of the discarded purple serpent, but I ignore it. This is a matter between brothers. Sariel could never understand.

My heart pounds in my ears as I unfold the letter to reveal Yves’s gossamer script, and I press one palm against the side of my head to steady it as I read.

Gladdest tidings, Prince Chevalier.

Thank you ever so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to write to me. It brought me the greatest joy to receive your letter on my birthday, I could not stop myself from shaking with excitement upon reading it.

Shaking with fear sounds more like it. That answers why Yves sent this, but drops a new more important question: Why did Chevalier send Yves a letter? Surely not just to wish him a happy birthday.

While your sentiments are more than enough, I truly wished you and Prince Clavis could have been present for the celebration. It was a small affair, as usual, but it was a welcome respite from the turbulence of the court since your departure. I am sorry to say our people are not pleased that your two-day inspection of the citadel has turned into a month-long station at the border, and many nobles are demanding your return to the palace posthaste. They fear your decision to remain may anger Obsidian and incite retaliation, but they only speak their minds so freely knowing you are so far away. I have no doubt you will have received letters from them asking for your return, but I beseech your understanding of their apprehension in your responses.

I scoff, the cooled breath materializing before me. Leave it to Yves to think the best of the people’s intentions, but he hasn’t read the novels of resentment Chevalier receives each week. And he hasn’t penned the curt, cold-blooded replies.

Then it hits me, Chevalier sent a letter to Yves that I didn’t write. The paper wrinkles as my grip tightens, and I have to squint to make out the next lines.

Ah, but I am getting off topic. I am sure you tire from talk of military and government, Sariel is currently drafting a lengthy report to you on both as I write this, so I shall make this as brief as I can.

It will please you to hear that despite the political climate, the seasonal climate has been rather generous. The harvest has been bountiful this year, and while the people’s spirits are not at their highest, their bellies are full and they are thankful. It took some help from the other princes, but we even managed to prepare the extra set of treats you requested. I must admit, I worried I would not be able to bake and pack the lot in time for the post. I had wanted the delivery to arrive as fresh as possible, and it was only with their assistance that we prevailed. Even with their pilfering hands snatching ingredients left and right, I ask that you thank them as well when you sit down to enjoy the sweets.

The tart aroma hits my nostrils again, and I have to hold back from clawing the sides of the crate apart. I limit myself to prying off two boards from the top, and am rewarded with a waft of warmth and a cornucopia of baked goodies. My mouth waters as I stick my face through the opening, letting the heat and the smell envelope my senses.

Home. It really is a piece of home right in front of me. So close I can touch it, smell it, taste it… but I hold off on the last one for now. What if Chevalier sent a specific numbered order? I pull my head out and rest my chin on the top as I read the last part.

And speaking of the others, it will also please you to hear that they are all well. Prince Leon and Prince Jin have placated the citizens for now, and while it is fortunate they are a team of two, I fear their efforts will not last much longer. I have spotted Prince Nokto speaking to nobles as well, and despite his age he harbors a magnetic quality that calms even the tensest of brows. Prince Licht and I have been handling paperwork in the background, and we have learned much about our kingdom and its operations in the process.

Furthermore, I know you did not ask, but father is in good health as well. Though he seldom leaves his room these days and only speaks with Sariel. I fear his spirits are lowest of all.

I have a little space left on this page, so please allow me to use it to ask of my brother. You mentioned he has not taken well to the extended stay, I hope he is at least keeping himself entertained. Even with the disquiet of complaints, the halls never felt so still in his absence. But I believe he can keep up with you, we all do.

Lastly, I do hope you are both keeping warm. The previous postman reported the weather is much colder near the mountains where you are. It was a bout of good fortune Prince Jin managed to hand you your sweater before you left, was it not? But as you said, a decorated mantle does nothing to light the hearth, so please enjoy the treats while they are still hot.

Take care of one another, and I pray for your safe return before the first winter snow.

Yves Kloss

The hand reaching for the crate is automatic. It takes a couple chews before I realize I have bitten into an apple strudel. It takes a few more before I realize I am crying.

Hot tears stream down my cheeks and smudge Yves’s words as I hug them and the pastry to my chest. Weeks… months… years of what I could never put into words rock my body as I scream into the crate.

I don’t want to go to war. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. I don’t want to keep hurting myself climbing to catch Chevalier, because I know I will never make it. I just want to go home. Home where these treats were made. Home where these treats were shared. Home where these treats never fathomed a life outside their oven.

The sun is mostly up when the final cries exit my system. My body weighs like it ran to the palace and back, and I cannot even raise an arm to shield myself from the blinding rays or the chilling winds of early morning. The only thing I can do is bury my face in the collar of my sweater. Chevalier’s sweater.

Chevalier’s sweater is warm.

I wrap my fingers around the half-eaten strudel. It is warm, too.

Warm, like Yves’s hands when he pulls them out of the oven. Warm, like Licht’s cheeks as he stands tip-toed at the edge of the table and watches his brother set them down. Warm, like Nokto’s hugs when he ambushes his brother from behind, both in thanks and in distraction. Warm, like Jin’s ears as he swipes the top pastry and it disappears into his mouth. Warm, like Leon’s laughter as he prepares to pacify the situation.

Warm, like Sariel’s gaze as he watches the scene unfold. Warm, like my mother’s kisses that linger to this day. Warm, like Chevalier’s…

A sharp crack turns my attention back up the hill. The top of the tent rips and flutters in the breeze, waiting for me to patch it up again. Chevalier must be cold.

Pain throbs in my wrist. I peel the wax off my hand. I look back and forth between the citadel and the hill. Then between the border and the sun. I have many paths before me, and a good four hours left.

I stuff the rest of the pastry in my cheeks and collect the letters, careful to reseal Yves’s the way it was and return Sariel’s to the top. I grab the crate under one arm and start back up the hill. It is a long climb, yes, but one I know I can make.

*Nudges Yves* Get in there, Evie! You're the hero of this story! And uh, you can just stay where you are, Gilbert.

Tagging:@atelieredux @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus

If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #clavis lelouch #chevalier michel #ikepri clavis #ikepri chevalier #cozytober #pumpkins & fireplaces #fall fluff autumn angst ccc #scorchie writes #tw: mentions of death #tw: grief #tw: injury #tw: pain

85 notes · View notes

starilicious · 5 months

Text

mere haath mein (echo x gn!reader)

》 summary: reader and echo's love story from strangers to friends to lovers throughout the clone wars (a 4+1 type of story)

》 series masterlist: (please read the masterlist before continuing on!)

click here to read on AO3

》 part 4 word count: ~1.2k

》 part 4 warnings: none

》 part 4 spoilers: none

》 a/n: a short chapter today! it's the leadup in parts 4.5.1 and 4.5.2 👀

४ (4)

The next time you see him, he’s gearing up to go to the Citadel. For the past year or so, you have been accompanying the 501st on their missions, mostly due to Anakin’s confidence in your abilities and wanting to make sure you’re the head engineer on the ship.

(You suspect there’s something more to it than that because of the knowing looks he shares with Ahsoka and Rex every time you enter the room, but you brush it off. You get to stay with your friends, and that’s what really matters anyway).

It’s certainly been a difficult journey. A few months into your friendship, Fives and Echo sullenly confided in you what happened to the rest of the members of their squadron, and later to 99. Since then, they became some of your closest friends, ones you knew you could trust and rely on.

You were on Kamino when it was attacked, but you were relatively safe. All nat-born staff were guarded with the cadets, meaning you didn’t see most of the action, only felt the rumbles and heard the shouts. It was only after you emerged from the safe haven and wandered the facility did you find your friends. They excitedly told you how they had just been promoted as ARC troopers and you swear you have never seen their faces brighter. It was a crazy day for us all.

You’re alone with Echo and Fives in the barracks they share with some of the other clones, sitting on the bed as you watch them pull on their plastoid armor, checking and rechecking everything.

“Wait," you say, holding a hand up to stop them while the other one rustles through your bag quickly. You produce two small devices and hand one to each of them.

“I’ve been saving these for the right moment.”

"What is it?" Fives asks, holding the little prototype up to the light to inspect it.

"It's a commlink recording device that doubles as an armor enhancer. Basically, it creates an invisible shield covering that fits the shape of your armor and it can lessen the impact of blaster shots by taking the kinetic energy and dissipating it into the ground,” you say proudly, taking it back from them. The duo stare at you, dumbfounded. With a start, you realize that this is probably the first time you’ve rendered them both speechless.

“Wha–how did you know there was a space underneath our armor? I didn’t even know it was there” Echo inquires as he watches you snake a hand beneath Fives’ backplate to place the device in a small magnetic niche.

“I designed it,” you smile smugly, shooting him a hazy smirk before walking over to him to repeat the action. He’s warm–you can feel the heat emanating even through his blacks. Your cheeks flame at the feeling.

You step back, admiring your handiwork as Fives asks, “When? We’ve had our ARC trooper armor for a long time.”

You give him a confident nod. “Remember that attack on Kamino?” A nod. “Well after you told me about your promotion, I submitted a request to work on the new phases of clone armor for the ARC troopers. Once I was granted access, I specially engineered two customized prototypes and long story short, I was able to get them to you without either of you knowing,” you laugh at the utter shock on their faces.

“So that’s why I didn’t have to paint on the blue hand stain!” Echo exclaims and Fives punches his arm.

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” he questions incredulously and Echo splutters, indignant.

“Well how was I supposed to know? I figured with new armor, I’d have to paint it on, but then it came with the stain, so I thought ‘oh, they must have just used my old armor,” Echo defends himself, pushing Fives back. The latter is about to answer, but you cut in.

“Hate to cut this lovely entertainment short–” you look at both of them pointedly. “–but there are a few more things you need to know.” They both immediately shut their mouths and turn to you, waiting to hear what you have to say.

“This device is only a prototype. I’ve been working on it for a while, but I never got the chance to test it. Theoretically, it should work, but this is the first time it’s being used so you have to be careful. I don’t know if it will malfunction or fall off or break or zap you or kill you or–” you start rambling off the possibilities, getting lost in your fears of your craftsmanship.

“Okay okay okay,” Echo halts you in the middle of your raging mind, placing his hands on your shoulders. Your heart jumps at the contact and it takes all of your focus to not melt into the ground right then and there.

“I’m sure it’s going to be absolutely fine. You’re the best engineer we know, there’s no way it won’t work,” he reassures. Fives pipes up.

“I’m with Echo here. We know you put a lot of work into it and you want to keep us safe, which means it will work. You can’t get rid of us that easily,” Five grins and you can’t help but roll your eyes at the statement.

“How unfortunate. Here I was, hoping I could get away from you once and for all,” you mock teasingly, the three of you erupting into soft laughter. As they continue pulling on the plastoid, you mention a few more things.

“I was able to work in an encrypted frequency and recorder. So if you’re ever stranded or alone, you can just reach back and tap it, and it should start recording. Whenever there’s a signal, the message will relay straight back to my personal commlink and I can get you help if you need it.”

“Stars Astro, have we ever told you how amazing you are?”

“Hm, once or twice,” you smile before adding on. “There is something else though. This technology is experimental–you have to make sure it never gets into Separatist hands.”

They nod solemnly, determination coloring their handsome features.

“It also has its limits. I haven’t quite figured out yet how to make it withstand blasts and explosions, and I didn’t want to send you in with a half-assed, malfunctioning tech, so I just removed that part entirely. I’m sure you both will be perfectly fine considering everything that you’ve been through,” you say assertively, crossing your arms over your chest as they pull on the last of their armor and grab their helmets.

You smile sadly. “Come back to me, yeah?” you say softly, glancing up at them.

Fives moves in first, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug as he whispers into your neck. “You can count on us.”

He lets go of you then and Echo moves in. His hug is softer, gentler, but you can feel your tender and fragile heart breaking anyway as he does so. Echo doesn’t need words–his subdued actions speak for him.

You accompany them out of the barracks and watch them board the shuttle. They wave to you and you wave back and then they’re gone. Please come back to me.

Little did you know that it would be the last time you ever saw the both of them together again.

---

please consider reblogging! it really helps me and is super encouraging ^_^

18 notes · View notes

perexcri · 1 year

Text

go out in the world to start over again and again (as many times as you can) [byler week 2023 - day 1]

title from: heaven’s gate by fall out boy

dedicated to: @cherryisgone for writing in the comments of the truth beneath the rose that Mike should kiss Will’s magic-warmed fingers and infecting me with that image :) thank you friend i have not known peace since :)

here’s a short ficlet for my fantasy au A Flower That Resembles You!! it can be reasonably read on its own without having read the original fic, though i do think that would remove some context for it,,,either way, it’s all going under the cut in case people are concerned about potential spoilers~

A breeze rolls down the cliff face, rustling its fingers through their hair as they’re both preoccupied with their tasks: plucking weeds, sifting through the soil, carefully shaking seeds out of jars and into pockets of dirt to be covered up. In rhythmic intervals, one scoops dirt over seeds while the other sprinkles water upon the fresh mound, over and over, all throughout the land that surrounds their new home.

And that’s not even to mention their neighbors–lovely people, of course, and the houses in this coastal village are spread out enough so that nobody’s toes get stepped on, but after nearly a year left to themselves in a shack on the western coast, pinned between the sea and the citadel, they’re still growing used to the idea that people are nearby, that eyes wander, and that ears, of course, can hear.

Regardless, nobody stops them now as they work the land behind their new home. The people of the village wander back to their abodes in their close-knit families, dangling off the arms of lovers or else pulled by the eager hands of children. Their murmurs mix with the chirp of cicadas and crickets to create a sweet song of spring, nature and people alike heralding the advent of warmer temperatures and brighter days.

They’d talked about a fence when they’d first arrived, but, tired from their journey and trying to acclimate to their new surroundings, neither had gotten around to the task, and neither seemed to particularly care. As such, there are no clear demarcations for where their new garden will end and the empty grasses of the land surrounding them will begin.

Neither of them say a word, but their gazes occasionally snag on each other, or else one’s eyes catch the other’s wandering towards the other villagers or the distant line of pine trees which house the unruly insects and perfume the air with the sharp musk of their needles.

“I think that’s it,” Will finally says, the first to break the serene silence that had settled over their humble plot of land. He pushes the sleeves of his shirt just over his elbows from where they’d fallen, and when he swipes his arm against his forehead, it leaves a light streak of dirt that the blue hour nearly makes fade into his skin.

The jars filled with the seeds they’d taken with them sit empty on the stoop, but Mike knows better. Sure, he’d loved hearing about the flora from Will–distinguishing between blanket flower or lavender seeds, how much water to grace each one with, and, please, if you have any questions, either ask Will or consult the book–but there’s only one flower he ever had any intention of planting when Will had mentioned beginning the garden sometime last week.

Mike had no choice but to heartily agree–how could he not? Will asks for so little and gives all too much–planting a garden together at their new home, where the sun rains freely upon the lands unshackled from the domineering shadows of the citadel’s walls, is the least they can do. Hell, Mike had even encouraged him to ask for more: they’re free and they’re together, and what’s to hold them back from taking hold of the whole world?

Just a garden would be nice, Will had said as he’d traced a fine ribbon of light between their entwined fingers, let it tickle at Mike’s nose and send that pleasant warmth of magic trickling from the crown of his head to where their ankles locked together beneath the quilt of their bed.

And now, they've done it.

Well, with two exceptions, the first being that, technically, they simply had a bunch of seeds in the ground, though the garden will surely come given enough care, patience, and time.

The second, of course, is the glaring absence of the only flower Mike had ever cared about for more than just the light Will coaxes from their starlit cores, or how their scents elicit memories of summer evenings, secrets withheld, and some heady blur of necklace cords, salt-slick tears on cheeks, and the crunch of an apple between his teeth. It’s an odd mixture, to be sure: when he thinks about their floral perfumes, he can’t discern whether it’s wholly good or wholly bad, for all he can discern is that it’s simply overwhelming.

So, in the few heartbeats of silence that pass between them, Mike lets a wry grin twist at his mouth, and he gently reaches forward to smudge the dirt away from Will’s forehead, which earns him a playful smack against his arm. “No, oh wise one. This garden is far from complete.”

“If you’re referring to the lack of flowers currently, I can assure you that I can’t make them grow any faster.”

Mike rolls his eyes and gently knocks his head against Will’s. “Well, perhaps if you’d been a better minister.”

“I was never a minister, and even if I was, I’d be an even worse one now since I’m here with you.”

“But then you’d have nobody to grow the flowers for! See, it all works out–balance for the divine which lives in all, or whatever those old men used to preach about.”

Will wraps his finger around one of Mike’s stray curls and gives it a gentle tug. “You’re fresh on your way to being taken back to the arms of the universe earlier than planned.”

Mike reaches up again and pads the last bits of dirt away from Will’s forehead. “Then let me make it up to you?”

Will tilts his head back to consider the dusky sky, dragging Mike’s eyes up his neck, the curve of his jaw, the messy strands of hair ruffled around his head. The last stains of magenta sunlight melt against the blue of the sky overtaking the world in this quiet hour, and Mike’s eyes are drawn up to the pinpricks of stars which, if he squints at just a little harder, seem to be glowing brighter.

“Make it up to me how?”

“However you’d prefer.”

Will’s eyes cut back down to him, narrowing slightly. “You have a plan.”

“I do not!”

“You never concede that early. You already have something planned.”

Mike gives an exaggerated scoff. Then, under the weight of Will’s scrutiny, slowly drags his arms away from where they’d begun to encircle his love. He crosses them over his chest instead, hunching his shoulders as if to shield himself from a chill that isn’t there. “I do not. You just like to pretend like you know everything, and you like being mysterious–you know, I have my theories, and I think it’s all that tea those damned ministers made you drink since you were, what, a baby? It must’ve done something to your brain chemistry.”

Will shoots him a glare, and it speaks loudly enough on its own as to not require any further explanation.

Several more heartbeats pass, the scars on Mike’s chest begin to prickle, and with Will’s eyes turning dark in the evening’s blue hour, Mike finally concedes; his arms fall to his sides, he spins on his heels, and he makes it to the back door of their house in just a few strides, huffing a sarcastic Fine over his shoulder.

And when he comes back out, his hands behind his back and trying not to slip against the object he cradles so carefully, he catches Will’s mouth curved into a warm grin.

“What?” Mike asks, fingers already fumbling against the jar. He winces as he tries to pull the door closed, some last whiffs of woodsmoke and heat from the hearth escaping out into the night and sticking against his back.

“You just look nice in the firelight,” Will notes, his voice simple and earnest in that way Mike has always loved.

And it’s been months now–almost a full year–and yet, Mike still feels his face begin to glow, as if it was the precious object pressing into his back at this moment.

“You also look nice against the light of the flower,” Will notes with a more playful grin.

Mike looks down, notices the glows of blue and lilac against his clothes and skin, how they shift and sheen like the face of the sea in sunlight, and he groans. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“You thought I wouldn’t feel the light?”

“Not all of us are magical healer prodigies and artful manipulators of the divine which lives in all like you, oh wise one.” Mike crosses the distance now, and he holds the jar between them. He’s not sure if it’s the darkening sky or Will’s magic, but its petals seem to bloom more in the dusk, its colors to shine more brightly in the air between them. Mike’s fingers feel clammy against the jar, his hands shaking slightly from overuse and hunger, though they finally still when Will’s fingers reach over them, careful and calloused and warm from magic. His thumb rubs small circles against Mike’s hand.

“We should plant it,” Mike says, tilting his forehead down to lean against Will’s, letting his magic’s warmth coat his face, for it to fill his lungs and tug him just a bit closer to the one person he’s unwilling to let go of again.

And how could Will devise an argument against such a proposition?

They fall into their previous rhythm, one last time for the season: it’s as if they’d both already thought of a spot for the flower, its precious blue petals handspun by Will out of starlight, kept alive by Mike’s refusal to lose hope. Mike’s knees press into the dirt near the window as he leans over, digs through the soil, and tries his best to make room for the flower and the roots which sit tightly bunched against the confines of the jar. Will crouches next to him, his leg pressed against Mike’s. His fingers play with the remaining well water in the bucket, ready to soften the soil with its nourishment.

His other hand reaches out, though, and as their fingers brush together, Mike realizes Will is helping him make room for the flower, too.

And make room they do. The flower’s stem is strong enough to let it stand upright without the support of the jar, its roots taking well to the soft soil on this cliffside. They bury them beneath more overturned soil, and just as the last vein of roots disappears, as Mike rests his hand against the flower and in the dirt, Will’s reaches across, their fingers nearly threaded together around the flower’s stem.

The action brings to mind hazy images of a life now long left behind. There had been a minister, yes, and the girl, and a flame that violently seared against his wrist, leaving a trail of welts and blisters across his skin that had seemed to spell out the word liar.

He shakes his head to rid himself of clanging bells and flower petals crushed underfoot; he focuses his eyes on the reality in front of him instead, of being with his best friend and love in a garden of their own making, proof of their devotion blooming right between their hands beneath the moonlight.

“Now is it a garden?” Will asks, voice only half-teasing. He’s watching Mike with careful eyes, studying him as if for a charcoal drawing.

Mike meets his gaze, the corners of his mouth poking up. “Only by your magic’s touch.”

And as they remove their hands, in the light of the flower as it burns nearly incandescent, Mike takes Will’s hand and connects their fingers again, refusing to let go. When he presses a kiss to the back of Will’s hand, it glows with the warmth of his magic, though it’s no match for the light contained in the shape of Will’s smile, in the fondness of eyes, in the way he pulls Mike’s hand towards him and presses a kiss right back.

#byler #bylerweek2023 #a flower that resembles you #unhinged communist knight #guilt-ridden flower boy #this will get posted to ao3 at the end of the week btw!#ficlet #cleradin

43 notes · View notes

capriciouswriter207 · 5 months

Note

Hello, Deep Frost Citadel player here, we had another session today and it went so so so well! We played for 5 hours straight it was awesome.

Today we entered the citadel and had our first encounters. First with Wels (the knight at the front, im fairly sure its him) in which we decided to tie him up since we didnt want to kill him and we got his helmet.

Then we found the corpse in the dormatories, narrowly avoided being poisoned by the wine in the dining room and we found the kitchen. My friend touched the bird and the dagger appeared, but I was first in combat so I slammed a pot over it like a spider and the combat instantly ended (i dont know how we would fight a dagger tbh) and we had to spend a good while figuring out where to put it. We ended up shoving it in the pantry and we found the pristine waffe! Genuinely laughed so hard at that artefact and im so excited to figure out what other references are there in the artefacts.

Next we found Scar and fought him in the library and again we're trying really really hard not to kill them. The wild magic is super awesome and is really difficult to deal with. I am very sad that we set the flying books on fire since the picture also got burnt, but if we manage to save him he wont need the picture anyway as he will have jellie again ^_^

Anyway sorry to ramble, I can stop sending you updates but I just love this campaign so much

Don't apologize for rambling, I love reading these kinds of messages. If you keep sending updates, you will just continue to make me smile and to make my days. I'll likely start answering privately (so that those who aren't as far as your group or those who haven't had a chance to play it won't see spoilers pop up), but I'll always answer to show my appreciation for these kinds of messages. I do love to read how people are faring in this dungeon.

I assume you can fight a dagger the same way one fights another enemy, except that this one has a high dex, which means a higher AC and that makes it a little tricky. Good thinking with a pot, though.

For a little while, I considered having Scar follow normal Wild Magic rules, but then I decided it would be more fun if it went off a little more reliably during combat, and I'm glad you had a good experience with that aspect.

In any case, thanks for sharing!

#decked out 2 #terrors beneath deepfrost citadel #terrors beneath deepfrost citadel spoilers #if you do decide to send updates i'll likely answer privately #but i will respond

0 notes

jedimaesteryoda · 1 year

Text

"I'm Sam the Scared, not Sam the Slayer." "Scared? Of what? The chidings of old men? Sam, you saw the wights come swarming up the Fist, a tide of living dead men with black hands and bright blue eyes. You slew an Other."

-AFFC, Samwell I

Sam admittedly is not a warrior as he was repeatedly reminded by his abusive father, but we see him kill an Other with a knife, slay a wighted Small Paul who was already big and strong in life and beat up Dareon for abandoning their party and the Night’s Watch. Without realizing it, he actually is brave and tough, especially on behalf of those he cares about.

"In the Age of Heroes it was supposedly the stronghold of a pirate lord who sat here robbing ships as they came down the river."

. . .

"They will take anything these days. Dusky dogs and Dornishmen, pig boys, cripples, cretins, and now a black-clad whale. And here I thought leviathans were grey."

-AFFC, Samwell V

Behind the dais a kraken and grey leviathan were locked in battle beneath the painted waves.

-ADWD, Davos III

Having fought a brawl, and killed in one-on-one, when Euron inevitably attacks Oldtown, it would be the first battle Sam participates in as a combatant, especially if Euron attacks through the Honeywine that flows through the Citadel after carrying the longships overland to the river like Harwyn Hardhand did.

Sam, as often befits his story arc, would find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, shoved by fate into a fight he doesn’t want.

**Slight The Winds of Winter Spoiler**

Euron Crow’s Eye stood upon the deck of Silence, clad in a suit of black scale armor like nothing Aeron had ever seen before. Dark as smoke it was, but Euron wore it as easily as if it was the thinnest silk. The scales were edged in red gold, and gleamed and shimmered when they moved. Patterns could be seen within the metal, whorls and glyphs and arcane symbols folded into the steel.

Valyrian steel, the Damphair knew. His armor is Valyrian steel.

-TWOW, The Forsaken

When Euron attacks Oldtown he will likely be wearing that Valyrian steel scale hauberk that will make him impervious to any weapon directed at his torso, giving him a significant advantage in combat. One could aim for his head, but he would likely be wearing a good helmet. Even Lazy Leo, skilled with a bravo’s blade and dagger, could try to slay him but fail to get past the armor.

However, there is likely one weak spot that his armor wouldn’t cover: his eyes. The black eye that gave Euron his sobriquet of “Crow’s Eye,” itself evokes the term “bullseye,” the black spot in the middle of the target an archer intends to hit. “Crow” is also a nickname for a member of the Night’s Watch.

Sam saw the sense in the decree, but he hated longbow practice almost as much as he hated climbing steps. When he wore his gloves he could never hit anything, but when he took them off he got blisters on his fingers. Those bows were dangerous. Satin had torn off half his thumbnail on a bowstring.

-AFFC, Samwell I

She captained the ship's red archers too, and pulled a double-curved goldenheart bow that could send a shaft four hundred yards. When the pirates had attacked them in the Stepstones, Kojja's arrows had slain a dozen of them whilst Sam's own shafts were falling in the water.

-AFFC, Samwell IV

She waited till the longship came within two hundred yards before she gave the command to loose. Sam loosed with them, and this time he thought his arrow reached the ship. One volley was all it took. The longship veered south in search of tamer prey.

-AFFC, Samwell V

Sam showed a steady progression in his skills at archery. When he came to Oldtown, he already made a friend in Alleras, who himself (or perhaps herself) proves to be an expert marksman when first introduced. Alleras will likely help Sam improve further. It’s noted in the last chapter, Sam manages to reach his target, which just so happens to be an Ironborn longship.

Knives and bow and arrows are the tools for a huntsman, the sigil of House Tarly. Sam already killed with a knife with the Other, and killing with a bow and arrow, he would become the striding huntsman of his sigil.

In a dose of irony, Euron is killed not by an axe wielded by some tough, armored warrior or a sword wielded by a gallant knight in shining armor, but by an arrow to his crow’s eye from an overweight scholar. Then again, at Oakenshield, the Reader showed Euron was never good at dealing with those kinds of people. lol.

Euron’s death will have left the Ironborn at Oldtown leaderless and they will likely be crushed when an aiding army arrives at around the same time. Like Bloodraven, Sam’s deed of slaying the rebel king with his bow may win the battle, but may likely be overlooked by the singers. He would be the unsung hero.

On a side note, Euron’s Valyrian scale armor is too valuable to miss given even Aeron admitted it is the only one that exists in Westeros. I think Sam might keep it, and if it likely doesn’t fit him, he’ll probably give it to Jon, especially after learning about the assassination attempt against him.

“Here Jon, this will make you less vulnerable to daggers.”

It would fit with the comment Jon mentioned to Sam of wanting to be “Valyrian steel,” and symbolically would serve as a mark of progression for Jon’s character. The red gold and black steel are also Targaryen house colors.

#asoiaf #a feast for crows #samwell tarly #alleras #sarella sand #euron greyjoy #oldtown #citadel #maester

14 notes · View notes

ask-the-crimson-king · 2 months

Text

I'm about a third of the way into Ahriman: Undying and this can basically be summarized with the opening prelude to Apocalypse 1992:

And lo, led by the valiant hero Angus McFife XIII, The forces of justice assembled their armies in the skies above Mars, In preparation for the epic battle against the demon horde. But on planet Earth, a far more sinister machination was afoot... In the dwarven caverns beneath the mighty citadel of Dundee, The evil wizard Zargothrax began to recite the dread incantation Which would unlock the Chaos Portal to the galactic nexus, As foretold in the dark prophecy of Anstruther countless centuries ago. As he placed the Goblin King's crystal key into the altar before him, Ancient runes began to glow on the surface of the portal. Soon the gateway would open and the elder god, Kor-Virliath Of the eighteenth hell dimension, would be unleashed onto the galaxy! The countdown to universal annihilation had begun!

I will give no actual spoilers but the book is actually great so far and it genuinely made me miss reading any Thousand Sons-adjacent stuff.

2 notes · View notes

gant-eyed-warden · 3 months

Text

The Rite of the Lily

After the conclusion of the Railroad, Warden ended up taking Mr Transport to the Baroness at the Evenlode for a long list of reasons. Mr Pages had given them a single useful piece of advice, which was to remember that safety is not the same thing as happiness. So knowing the Masters are a hot mess, and knowing the High Wilderness is a pretty cruel place, Warden went with the Baroness, who at least seemed to want to make it happy and not just useful.

I thought for a long time on her parting line after you hand it over, in particular the reference to the Rite of the Lily. It's been an oblique reference in a few places I know but its actual function or purpose was a bit elided, at least until now.

Spoilers for City in Silver and Mr Transport.

The Baroness and the child exchange a glimmer of recognition when they finally see each other. "After Mr Spices and I parted ways, I did not expect to see this day." She takes the infant into her arms. Being free of it is a reminder of how shockingly heavy it was. "I assure you that this is for the best. The circumstances of the Masters are not ideal for the raising of a child. And familial affection is difficult, for their kind." Clinging to her shoulder, the infant burps – and a tiny fig wasp flies its way out of its mouth. Mr Transport seems unconcerned. It looks back at you with practised indifference. "There's no joy in remaining as you are. I trust that you understand this, by now. Perhaps one day you, too, will take up the lily." And with a smile, she retreats into the Magistracy – for a rite that you are not permitted to see.

In the Tracklayers' City we get a lot more information, not just about the Rite of the Lily but about the Baroness herself. We learn she has undergone the Rite of the Lily many, many times, in very exacting and expensive ways.

When you indicate that you are acquainted with the Solicitor-Baroness, she pulls a slim volume from the many that line her shelves. The pages are thin enough to see through, layered with infernal diagrams. "A record of her progress," says the Martagon Deviless. "We note what she changes in each Rite, the sigils required in each." The bottom page is complicated, contradictory, displaying many weaknesses. The next layer repeats only some of the sigils beneath, and the layer after that fewer still. For many consecutive lives, the subject's character is simplified into one that can properly serve its client. "The cost in candles was phenomenal," remarks the Martagon Deviless. "The Lilymire was less productive then; she was claiming almost the whole of its harvest, but none in Hell wished to refuse her, because of our agreement with the Creditor." Only a few layers ago, it seemed as though the Solicitor-Baroness had reached equilibrium; the changes from one sheet to the next were trivial indeed. But then, something almost wholly different was introduced. "A new spice in her character," says the Martagon Deviless slyly, and snaps the volume closed. "Now go," she says, tilting her head at you birdlike. "I've told you more than you deserve."

In Pilgrim's Citadel the devils bring a wax effigy of Furnace into town. Though the tracklayers by and large find this gross, the devils invite the tracklayers to write on the wax what of Furnace they would see kept, and what they would see left behind.

They do.

A tomb colonist – and at this distance you cannot be absolutely sure who it is – comes to consider the wax effigy, which is sculpted to include both the faces and the helmet of Furnace. Then it takes a metal pen and heats the nib in a candle flame, and writes deeply, scoring the candle with anger. Share the weight. Share the weight. Share the weight. You greedy fool.

Verity has a little to say about it. Mainly that this is yet another form of rebellion, this time rebellion of the soul.

"It offends the stars," she says. "It invites other creatures to cross the borders set by their own nature, and to share the dignities of Hell, if they have the skill. And it usually perturbs a soul in an interesting direction." Verity tells you then a story of Saint Trezigor, who was not always as he appeared in his late days. But he had a message for Hell, and rather than leave it silent, he transformed himself in order to become its messenger. His followers suffered the consequences, perhaps, but all transformations have a price.

(I should really play her ES.)

It is a very esoteric branch of the Red Science indeed that dares to treat the subject of souls. You work through proofs: proofs by contradiction, proofs imagining an infinity of souls and the smaller but still infinite set of souls altered by the Rite of the Lily. When you come to yourself, your cheek smudged with violant ink, you have arrived at an abstract of what draws devils to humans, and why both are necessary, and why the Great Chain is something more like a chain mail, link on link in all directions. No one will ever publish it. But perhaps that was not the point.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, however, having your soul winnowed into a different shape hurts.

The Rite does not require poisons. It is enough to inscribe the wax with a metal nib. Even the application of ink will do. But your method is more comprehensive, and more precisely targeted: ridding the Furnace-city of some residual flaws and vulnerabilities that arise from having been human. Old appetites, old scars, will be sloughed away or chemically burned out. When you leave the hall, you shut your ears to the hoarse screams. That too is a portion of the rite.

All transformations have a price.

The last dimension of the Rite of the Lily we see for now is with the Dying Tracklayer.

His disease is fatal, but the Martagon Deviless has let him hope that his death will not be wasted. There is a woman he wants to marry, but her faith is not his. She will not marry out of her religion; he cannot bring himself to convert. And so he hopes to use the Rite of the Lily, and return different from the Boatman. After he has died, he hopes he will be able to become one of her people.

This is the most devilish application of Kataleptic Toxicology: testing another, and finding the reagents within. Doctrine is irrelevant. The Dying Tracklayer is not a student of creeds. He has no beliefs that forbid him from following another's faith. He considers his beloved's practice homely and kind. He longs to walk down into a valley of people celebrating, and to take his place among them, singing their blessings with them from memory. His beloved's family offers this with an open hand. Come and be one of us, they say without restraint. Yet the warnings of the Church wake him in the night: that if he strays he will be repudiated by a god who might not exist. And here it is, the equation that he has not understood. Which is more sacred, the welcome or the threat? So advised, he knows what to write on the wax brow of his effigy.

#fallen london spoilers #city in silver spoilers

3 notes · View notes

bracketsoffear · 1 year

Note

Anti-Lich propaganda: The Extinction is "the fear of catastrophic change, the extinction of humanity and its replacement by something else". The Lich causes extinction events, but judging by Harrowhark "Planet-murderer" Nonagesimus and Gunpowder "Blew up the moon" Tim, that alone isn't enough to qualify as Extinction. Marolmar's aliases are as follows:

Garden of the End

Life, Death and Rebirth

The Changing of the Age

The Turning Wheel

The Spirit of the Spring

The Corruption of Souls

All of those sound like titles for someone who is killing the world to create a new one where humanity has been replaced by something new, correct?

Here's some quotes from The Lich:

"You are alone, child. There is only darkness for you, and only death for your people. These ancients are just the beginning. I will command a great and terrible army, and we will sail to a billion worlds. We will sail until every light has been extinguished. You are strong, child, but I am beyond strength. I am the end, and I have come for you, Finn." --"Escape from the Citadel"

"You, your family, everyone will die, over and over. Mountains of broken bodies beneath the wheel."--"Crossover," referring to his goal of spreading all across the multiverse to destroy every world

"While a mortal world doubts and questions, I know exactly what I am. I am the ceaseless wheel. The last Scholar of GOLB. I am your doom."--"Whispers"

"The [SPOILER] is a creature without purpose, fit only to be a pawn in my eternal quest to end all life."--"Together Again"

Judging by his own words, The Lich's goal is to kill everything that exists and destroy life itself in a way that feels more End (maybe Slaughter) than Extinction. The Adventure Time wiki even calls him "the manifestation of the inevitable death of all things".

#character propaganda #asks #extinction poll

8 notes · View notes

brightwingedbat · 1 year

Text

Commander Nastazya 27 - What Lies Beneath

(This story involves spoilers from Guild Wars 2: End of Dragons.)

(Also VERY LONG)

---

Commander Nastazya - What Lies Beneath - 1335 AE

It's a regular day at Commander Nastazya Ragewelder's home in Lion's Arch, sunny weather, a nice temperature. Both her and her mate Marcus Furyclash in their typical casual clothing, not doing much at all. Nothing could go better for them both, by all means they should be having a good time.

And yet…

Marcus' mind is still stewing on the thoughts of his brother Tantalus being alive, and how much he changed. How much he regrets not being there for him, and maybe he could've saved his brother from the life he was forced to live, a better life where the two of them could watch each of their sons grow. The thoughts echo in his mind as he gazes out to the sea from the breezy window.

Nastazya herself is still caught up in recent events, the shock of her kidnapped cub she rescued, and her old primus losing his tail and retiring. And then there's the thoughts of her wanting another cub, but unsure if she should go ahead, there's no telling what'll be in the future… Her role as Commander doesn't help with that either, it's still a hefty responsibility weighing on her.

They're both truly exhausted despite not doing all that much, and neither of them know what to do about it. That is until they both suddenly get a letter of invitation, from Rama of all people. It's an invitation to a party, seems Rama also has been finding the quiet a bit much lately and invited Dragon's Watch and other friends.

The two don't have anything better to do, plus it'll be a nice time to catch up with people again. They both agree to head on their way, but they do decide to go pick up some Ironbrew from the Black Citadel, a nice gift for Rama for setting up the party. Waypoint teleports and magic scrolls make for some quick travel.

---

The two arrive at the Red Duck Tea House in Cantha, and as they approach, hear Rama and Gorrik talk about how busy Marjory and Taimi are. On entering they realise that it's only Rama and Gorrik there, no one else has arrived. Curious, is everyone else really that busy?

Gorrik quickly greets the two when he sees them, but also comments on the two of them looking very exhausted. Strange, he thinks. Given the relative absence of world-ending threats he thought they would both appear far more relaxed, and yet that's far from the truth.

The charr simply brush it off, saying that it's nothing, just a bit tired after some recent events. They're sure the party will help ease their minds though, at least, they hope so.

Idle talks between the four reveal that everyone one else is too busy to be able to attend the party, despite all the food and drink Rama had ordered. It's just them, much to Rama's fierce disappointment. The gift from Marcus and Nastazya does help raise his spirits somewhat.

After a while of enjoying the food and refreshments, they finally bring to topic of the stack of papers on the table. Gorrik apparently sent in paperwork to start the Friends Detective Agency consisting of him and Rama, to the latter's disapproval of the name, but it's done now.

Aside from that, Gorrik gets a communicator call from Taimi, who apologises for not being able to attend the gathering. But she has news, the Jade Brotherhood have dug up something potentially very bad in Gyala Delve, which Gorrik calls an opportunity. The perfect time to gain some exposure as a detective company! Yao is also in the call too, and will be heading there.

Of course, the Commander and Lightbringer decide to also tag along with them. Things have been rather quiet for them, and they could do with the activity. That said, they don't seem all that enthused about it, something is making them hesitant… No point in dwelling on it further though, there's a problem and as always they're around to fix it.

They set off to the location of the mining trams at the east side of New Kaineng, but not before Marcus summons their packs of armour from a Mist rift, a small trick he's learned in recent time. Nastazya attires herself in her typical gladiatorial gear with her dual axes and greatsword, Marcus's gear is also mostly the same, but he has a new top similar to what Braham used to wear many years ago when they first met him.

Once at the trams, they take a lengthy ride to Gyala Delve, falling asleep during the ride at that too. They really must be exhausted…

---

On arrival to the jade quarries, they find not a single Jade Brotherhood member anywhere. Going further in they find Rama and Gorrik checking on an unconscious human. A short discussion on the place being essentially a ghost town, a scream interrupts them, immediately identified as Yao.

Nastazya and Marcus rush to the source of the sound, to find Yao struggling with a jade golem. A short bout with it allows Yao to get to fixing it up, they also tell the Commander that Chul-Moo is missing. The two charr split to question the Brotherhood around the quarry areas.

All information comes together as things are going very wrong, strange whispers, people acting odd. Very notably, a very thick haze within the mines. And once more just as they finished questioning they hear yet another scream, it's no shock to the two, they mutter complaints about do the Brotherhood all communicate by screaming?

Yao joins them too, together the three find Chul-Moo injured but awake beside a rock wall. As they're checking on him, a crazed Brotherhood member knows as Jin-Lee attacks them. Quickly, Nastazya and Marcus subdue the mad human, not that he's a match for either of them.

Once they're all safe, they talk with Chul-Moo about what's happening, and again it just adds more merit to the gossip of the other Brotherhood members. Yao suggests to Nastazya and Marcus about scoping out the inner parts of the mine, while also advising them about the Jade Bot filters available from the jade tech stands around.

Nastazya and Marcus decide splitting up and searching would do better than together, they have the communicators to keep in touch anyway if anything goes bad. And so, the charr delve further each armed with a jade tech scanner. Time to see what all this haze is about.

The air is thick within the massively open mines, and even more unsettlingly is the haze has an appearance not dissimilar to Void. Further scans find it composed of dragon magic like Aurene's, but with something else added to it… Gorrik confirms that Aurene says the Void is subdued, so whatever this is is something else, something wrong.

Curiously, Nastazya's breathing seems faster than normal and she starts hearing voices she shouldn't through the communicator when talking to Gorrik. Almorra Soulkeeper's voice, that can't be possible she thinks. Must just be static, can't be anything else. Marcus doesn't seem to hear any of these voices either, perhaps a merit of his experience as a Revenant.

Despite the voices, Nastazya continues the work, Marcus joining her once more as they test blocks of jade on globs of haze accumulating. Once done, they report the results to Gorrik who seems fascinated by them. Nastazya however asks Gorrik if he heard any other voices on their call, he assumes it might just be more Brotherhood interference.

Almorra's voice comes through the communicator to Nastazya's ears once again. "You… Always seeing monsters where there are none."

Ragewelder's ears flatten down and her breath halts, fear plain on her face. "I- I have to go." She mutters before putting the communicator away.

Marcus looks worriedly at his mate, a paw on her shoulder, she jerks up at the touch. "Naz? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing… Nothing. I'm fine." She responds with a slight heave to her breathing. Definitely not a good look for Furyclash to see.

"…You're clearly not, but alright. Let's finish up here first, this air here's real bad, might be that." Marcus says rather worriedly, he keeps close to his partner as he urges her to walk on further into the mines. He knows better than to try draw out an answer from her when she's like this.

"Y-yeah. Right."

---

The two travel deeper into the mines, meeting up once again with Gorrik, Rama and Yao. Plus Yao's jade mech Finn. As they go further in, with the help of Finn's explosives breaking down a rock wall, the group seem to be arguing amongst each other. Mainly Rama and Yao, while Gorrik tries to pacify them.

Marcus is too busy watching over Nastazya, until a demon ambushes them. Much to Marcus' horror, thanks to Mallyx in his head during the Void outbreak he's earned himself a deep phobia of the things. Ragewelder is quick to jump to the offense, removing the threat before it has a chance to hurt anyone, especially her partner who breathes a sigh of relief.

The attack manages to stop the arguing, which gives Gorrik a chance to ask Nastazya about the voices over the comms. She brushes it off, saying he was right about it just being interference while avoiding his gaze. The asura takes note of that, clearly she's not telling the truth.

Regardless, they need to continue further on, and encounter another odd demon with a void-like humanoid shape and white crackles around it. Together they all take it down, it seems to choke as it vanishes, with Nastazya taking a deep gasp of air at the same time.

When asked if she's alright, she mutters that it felt like she got the wind knocked out of her. Marcus doesn't waste a second to swap to Ventari in his head, administering a pulse of healing to his mate. A thankful nod from her, and yet more trodding towards the deepest part of the delve.

The tunnel opens up into a wide rocky area with three raised circular stone platforms in a vague mushroom-like shape, and above them swirls the unmistakeable energies of a Ley Line. Gorrik is quick to investigate, the jade this deep is absolutely thrumming with pure energy, charged by the Ley Line itself. The asura says he needs to get a closer look, which prompts Yao to get Finn to deploy a set of jade ziplines.

The moment they land on the first surface and walk forth, a hulking dark bipedal beast with a tentacled face and sharp claws appears. Rama immediately shouts out. "Oni!"

Suddenly it melts into a puddle of shadow, the puddles spread to each of the three stone platforms, a cloaked man rises from each. The same demon that vanished, but split apart. Gorrik claims it must be deceiving their senses and blurring reality, they have to split up to take it out. Rama and Yao head on to the other two platforms with Finn's ziplines, while Gorrik is aided by both Nastazya and Marcus.

The cloaked demon summons puddles of concentrated haze, bursting out in spirals around it. It focuses on repeatedly doing this over and over, while the three fighters all avoid the fierce, debilitating magics. Gorrik keeps up his holosmith defences, while Nastazya and Marcus go on an onslaught.

But just as they seem close to overwhelming it, their visions go darker, and suddenly they can only see the stone platform surrounded by the haze…

Nastazya's gaze darts around, Gorrik and Marcus have vanished… "Gorrik? Marcus?!" She calls out and receives no response, instead another being forms at the centre of the platform. Her eye widens in shock, a sight of someone long dead.

Forgal Kernsson, her partner in the Vigil, lost at Claw Island. The injured norn dissapointedly mutters. "You were special… one of the bravest warmasters in my order… Now that's changed, my friend."

"Wh-what…?" A slight sting to her heart, she shakes her head and quickly recovers her poise. "No, this is a trick. The demon's doing this."

More apparitions appear around the platform, slowly advancing towards Forgal in the centre. The haze seems to get thicker the closer they get, there's no doubt about it. Nastazya needs to protect him.

At the same time, Marcus also finds himself alone in a haze-filled platform. Going through much the same as his mate is, only this time he's given none other than Tybalt Leftpaw.

The disabled charr lays weakly at the centre, the same place that Forgal was. "You should be a little kinder to lost, broken things."

"Tybs…? But I am, I do care! I even lost use of my right paw like you!" Furyclash bellows out worriedly, it's now he notices the encroaching apparitions. "Kalla, you seeing this?"

The spirit's voice raises in his mind, serious given the matter at hand. (I am, but this doesn't seem right. I am using your eyes after all, if it's what you see, I see it too.)

"Yeah, it's not right. The demon probably, bastard. Gotta protect Tybs. Help me out here Razors!" Marcus calls, the spirits of Kalla's warband form to aid in fending off the monsters.

Clashing axes and greatsword, raining arrows and a spirit onslaught. Every apparition is reduced to dust, even though the two charr couldn't see each other, they were fighting the same opponents the whole time. The haze weakens, bringing them back out of the hallucination, with Gorrik successfully holding his own against the weakened encloaked demon. He's amidst shouting out. "Can you hear me? Yao wants you over on their platform. They need back up!"

Nastazya is quick to rush out a hissing remark, still focusing on the demon. "I know what you're doing. Using my mentor against me. You're pathetic."

Marcus keeps his muzzle shut, still getting his bearings after the shift back to reality. Kalla's warband dissipates back.

The asura ends up taken somewhat aback by Ragewelder's sudden outburst, he had been calling out to her the entire time with no response only to hear this now… "Commander? We'll talk later, I promise. Yao needs you now, okay?"

"Huh? Yao? Yes. Right." Nastazya snaps back from her rage, she glances over to the rather confused looking mate of hers. There's no time to question or answer, Yao needs help. "Let's go."

"…Uh, yeah." Furyclash feels much the same, no time to discuss. He soon follows his partner up the jade zipline to the jade tech engineer's platform.

"Help! I can't keep this up for much longer!" Yao shouts out desperately, they're barely fending off the demon's attacks…

"Sorry, Yao. Got out of sorts for a moment…" Nastazya utters apologetically, she and Marcus go to charge in to battle, but just as they get close they're drawn once more into the thick haze. Marcus and Yao vanish from Nastazya's sight, and instead she hears another voice…

"It's good to see you here." The silhouette at the centre of the platform becomes Eir Stegalkin, looking as wounded as she was before she was impaled by a vinetooth.

"STOP!" Nastazya inadvertently bellows out with a deep sorrow weaved in her voice. A harsh grimace forms upon her face as mordrem apparitions begin to appear, and go for Eir.

While she's fighting with all her strength, the illusory norn continues on to berate the Commander. "These people love you… You don't care…"

For some reason, these words bite harder than ever before. Ragewelder has to hold back her tears, she doesn't know why this is striking so harshly… "You know that's not true…" She utters mournfully, trying to keep her mind away from it amidst the demon's battle.

Marcus however only sees Yao vanish, but soon feels a pit in his stomach from the next sight. It's Nastazya, wounded and laying at the centre. "Naz-!" He calls out, but soon his attention falls more on the approaching demons. They're too fast, he needs to prevent them getting closer now, summoning the warband once again.

Nastazya hisses out hatefully, fangs bared. "Abandoning me once again, just like when you chased after Rytlock! Leaving me alone, to deal with everything myself! What kind of a mate are you?"

"N-Nastazya…?" This catches the revenant heavily off guard, his breath halts as he stares back at her. "But- But I- I didn't mean to…"

(Marcus, the demons!) Kalla roars in his head, pulling him back to the task at hand. He fires another volley of mist-rift arrows at a nearby demon, but he's losing concentration.

Ragewelder growls, glaring deeply at her mate. "You'll just leave me to die, like you did with Balthazar. You let him free, you killed me! I had to get myself back, and here I am about to lose everything again! It's all your fault! You could never protect me! Not even against Bangar!"

The words rattle Marcus straight to his core, tearing at him from within. "No, no, NO- I WON'T-! You're my everything, I couldn't bear losing you! I'll keep you safe, I promise! I promise! Please don't say this, please-!" He pleads with all his heart, tears already drip from his eyes, it's affecting his aim. Has Nastazya really felt this way the entire time? "I'm fighting, see! I'm still fighting for you!"

"For how long, until I die agai-" The voice is cut off as the haze weakens once more, Nastazya is standing with her greatsword heavy in her grip, an acute sadness in her eye. None of the wounds which were present to Marcus' eyes on her any longer.

Furyclash gazes in a heartrent expression, was that the haze doing that? Did she really say any of it? "Naz…?" He mutters out in a weak voice, looking on edge to burst into a sob.

Ragewelder isn't taking notice, recovering from her own experience. "I never wanted to hurt them. Eir…"

Marcus finds himself utterly silent, unable to act. Both he and his mate are stock silent. Only interrupted by Yao's next shout.

"Finn, shield Rama! Quick!"

"Defense engaged, The "Rama" has been shielded." The jade mech responds robotically, having jetted itself up to the final platform to set up the barrier. A massive wave of haze explodes from over it, with the shield breaking from the force, knocking the robot down.

"Commander, 'the Rama' could really use you over here!" The detective yells, having sustained some damage from the burst of haze.

Nastazya's focus goes entirely on Rama here, she quickly makes for the jade zipline up, rushing over to Finn and Rama. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" Her voice is on the edge of breaking, the haze is taking more of a toll on her.

Furyclash finally snaps to his senses on seeing her travel up to help Rama, he's not going to prove those words right. He needs to stay by his mate, he needs to keep her safe.

"Less apologizing, more helping!" Rama groans, before finally getting back to his footing with Nastazya taking the demon's attention.

"Do you see them, too?" Ragewelder asks, pure desperation in her voice. She needs an answer, this is tearing at her.

"Yeah. We're fighting them. What are you talking about?" Rama questions, all he's been seeing is the cloaked demon that originally split in three.

The haze starts to grow thicker once again, the others around vanish as a dreadfully familiar voice calls out. "I'm just passing through…"

"NO!" The utter pain that sparks through Nastazya's chest… A person to cut the deepest, an inspiration. A mentor. A friend. A hero. Almorra Soulkeeper.

"We need to talk… So many lives lost…" The wounded spectre hisses, glaring at the Commander.

"There was no other way…" Ragewelder's voice passes the point of breaking, this is getting too much, she can't hold it back any longer.

"I was nothing to you. You'll be the end of the charr!" More scathing remarks from Soulkeeper, made to cut into Nastazya's heart, to rive open her wounds.

Almorra was so much to her, the reason she got this far. To hear that from her, it's shattering. "That's not fair! I did everything I could! Almorra!" Her voice cracks as she shouts her old friend's name, tears stream down her cheeks. "I've put my all into doing what I can for everyone! All that I have! Everyone takes a piece from me- I DIDN'T ASK TO BE THE COMMANDER!!" She manages to bring forth her rage, her deepest rage against herself. And with it, strikes forth at the demons approaching Almorra.

Marcus isn't brought in to hallucination this time, he hears every word his mate speaks, and puts his all into trying to get her back. "Nastazya! It's not Almorra, it's the demon! You've got to snap out of it! Naz!" He calls and calls, but he's not getting through to her. All he can do is fight off the demons…

(The quicker we take this thing out, the quicker Nastazya goes to her usual self. Quickly, summon the- Demons!) Kalla's voice suddenly shifts, a most horrifying voice, deep and raspy. Unnatural…

Marcus, amidst summoning Kalla's warband, finds his fur stand on end. His ears flatten down and his tail curls beneath him. That horrible voice at the end… His eyes see what he summons, and it is not the spirits of charr. It is yet more demons, his wide eyes stare in pure fear. "No no no no no-!"

(You can't hold me forever, your body will be my vessel to take.) The venomous words of a great evil echo in his head, Mallyx the Unyielding.

Furyclash staggers back, holding on to his head, riving at it with both claw and metal. "NO! NO! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" A streak of blood drips down his forehead, from none other than his own doing.

Rama stares at both of the charr, one is uncharacteristically fighting in a fit of melancholy, the other is literally clawing through his own skin. "Hey, what is going on with you two?!" He questions in an outburst, still struggling against the demon.

Yao and Gorrik both finish off with their split demons, arriving up to assist the others in the battle against the last. Yao approaches up next to Marcus, trying to rouse him from whatever it is he's doing. "Marcus? What are you-"

"STAY BACK!" Furyclash roars, backing away from the engineer. The demon's voice is echoing loudly in his head, threatening to take over, against and again. "Mallyx is in my head! It's not safe! RRRGH! GET! OUT!"

(YOU. ARE. MINE-!)

Furyclash snarls upsettingly, cowering away from his friends. He doesn't know what to do, he can't get it out. The voice is always there, digging in deeper, until…

(Marcus! Don't listen to it!) Mallyx's voice is torn away, replaced by another, a familiar voice…

"Wh-what…? That can't…" It manages to break him out of the hallucination, there's no demons he summoned, there's no demon in his head. Only… "Tybalt?"

(No fear, like you showed me on Claw Island! You can do this, I know you can!) It's clear as day, Tybalt Leftpaw, spurring him onward.

Back to his senses, he can't let himself fall to any more of the oni's tricks. "Right, Naz needs me." He glances to Yao, nodding affirmedly. "I'm good, oni messing with my head. An old friend snapped me out of it, now then…" He nocks an arrow, it soars accurately to one of the last encroaching demons, more accurate than he usually is.

(Perfect shot, just like me and my rifle!)

The felling of that demon reduces the haze once more, pulling Nastazya out of the hallucination. But she's still looking distraught. Fighting wildly, charging right at the now uncloaked oni. "No more, no more…!"

It stabs at Marcus to see her like this, he's never, ever seen her fight in such a desperate way. Not full of sorrow like this. "It's gonna be fine, Naz! I'm here!"

There's no response to him, she's locked away in a fierce onslaught. An effective one though, she's tearing away at the demon and barely giving it a chance to fight back. The beast learning first hand what happens when you enhance the emotions of a charr who fights with her rage.

With the other four joining in, it's a short matter of time before the beast is finally fallen.

And yet…

There's little time to cheer, as the oni floats from the floor and begins to recover all its wounds. Absorbing the ley line energies directly.

The others seem ready to fight once more, but not Ragewelder. She starts hyperventilating, the haze here is thick, she can barely breathe right. She falls to a knee, grasping her throat. And slowly, starts losing consciousness.

"Naz! Nastazya!" Marcus quickly runs to her side, holding an arm around her front, trying to prop her up. After the words he's been given from earlier, he's scared more than ever.

Rama doesn't want to take any chances here, he orders the others. "Let's get out of here! Now! The Commander's blacking out! We need to get her and go!"

Nastazya's hearing becomes fuzzy, as does her vision. The last things she hears, in the voice of Almorra Soulkeeper and Eir Stegalkin. (You haven't changed a bit. Killing and corrupting, it's what you were born to do.)

Her vision goes black.

---

Nastazya stirs, the light assaults her opening eye, and something tightly clenches around her paw. She glances over, to see her tear-filled mate's face. "…Marc?"

A huge gasp of relief comes from Furyclash, he immediately leans down over her, embracing around her. "Nastazya… I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry…"

"Wh- Hey, It's alright, I'm fine. See? C'mon." Ragewelder utters softly, trying to sit herself up, barely managing to get Marcus up too. She notices Gorrik, Rama and Yao are standing nearby watching too.

Truthfully, Marcus' apologies come from the blame thrown at him from the demon encounter, the failing to protect her. The demon was right, he did fail her again. "But I, I didn't protect you, again…"

"That… Don't beat yourself up over it. I wasn't much help, was I…?" She admits sadly, she can't look at him in the face, she barely noticed he was even there when Almorra showed up.

"Burn me, I could say the same here. That demon was…" Marcus shakes his head, he doesn't know what to say. He is at least gladdened his mate seems well.

At this, Gorrik clears his throat to get their attention. "Ahem, apologies for interrupting but- We were discussing what's next while Marcus was watching over you. Taimi called."

"And I'm still here!" She announces from the communicator without hesitation.

"Ah, yes. Well, Joon was angry, but thrilled about the energy source! We just need to lure that demon away, and we have some ideas! But they…" Gorrik hesitates, he knows the Commander won't like it.

Nastazya sits up properly, with Marcus beside her. Her brow furrows as she looks to the asura. "What is it?"

"We, uh… We're going to have to do some neuro-parasitological investigation, the demon seemed particularly attracted to you. Given it appears to prey on traumatic memories, this may be… Difficult." The asura admits.

Nastazya falls silent, she feels Marcus embrace her once again. Her tail swishes uncomfortably behind her as her ears droop. "…If that's what it takes."

Taimi speaks from the communicator once more. "Sorry, Commander. But it is important work. I'll fill Joon in. Keep us posted if you can. And good luck."

It's silent for a while after, Marcus finally speaks up, worried for his mate. "I think it's best if us two get back home, I want to keep a watch over Naz, away from this place."

Rama nods in agreement. "By all means, she inhaled a lot of that haze stuff. Probably better that way."

"Keep in touch, alright? Otherwise I'll get worried." Yao answers, a genuine concern in their expression.

"We will, I'll make sure of it. See you some time then." Furyclash gets himself up, then aids his mate to her feet as well. Her quiet is unsettling him, he's not used to this. "Naz?"

"…Let's go." She mutters, all of this has been too much, she doesn't want to talk.

Together the two set off, first to Arborstone, then the asura gate back to Lion's Arch. Their travel is some of the quietest the two have been while beside the other.

---

It's night time at Lion's Arch, Nastazya and Marcus are back at their home. They've been trying to relax the rest of the day, back in their casual outfits. But it hasn't been going well. Nastazya's mind's been stuck on the words the demon twisted, and Marcus can see it getting to her.

He doesn't know all of what she saw, she's not mentioned it. Not that he's mentioned what he saw either, he's too scared to.

The ocean waves and light sound of crowds from the outside fill the quiet, the two sitting side by side on the red couch.

At some point, it gets too much for Nastazya, she can't bear it. Her voice is light, her face scrunches in sorrow. "Marc… It's too much. I can't take those words anymore."

"Huh? What words?" He asks curiously, worriedly. He brings his right arm around her back, his tech paw on her side. "Tell me."

Ragewelder is quiet, but then the words burst through, loud and angrily. "I'll be the end of the charr, killing and corrupting is what I was born to do… Those voices were right, they all were! Bangar only went after Jormag because I had Aurene! We went into a civil war, lost so many of us and got us corrupted into frost legion all because I was the spark to the flame!"

Furyclash grimaces, that's what she's been tormenting herself over. No wonder she looks so distraught. He needs to try shift that mindset. "Naz, you know that's not fair on you, you didn't have any choice. Bangar's who mobilised them, not you."

She's not listening to it, the words are too strong. "But he only did that because of ME! We lost too many, Rytlock and Crecia lost Ryland, Ursa and Patia lost Maxim. I had to kill Elexus, even got Almorra killed! Who knows how many more warbands lost their families all because I'm this DAMNED DRAGON 'CHAMPION'!"

"Nastazya! That was all far out of your hands! You're not the one to blame!" Marcus finds his own voice raising, else he fears his mate won't listen to him. But it seems to just make things worse.

Nastazya growls harshly, not at Marcus, but at herself. All the guilt she has fit to bursting. "How the hell am I not to blame?! Everything went to shit all because of who I am, even before I was the 'Champion' I still got Faust branded! Tullia, Graw and Clio all died because I had to rush in to a brandstorm, all just to kill my own branded mother! I was always like thi-"

"NASTAZYA! STOP!" Marcus yells, utter sorrow laced in every word. He quickly pulls her near, nuzzled beneath his neck while he attempts to comfort her. Left paw brushing down the side of her neck and hair, he can feel her quiver as her sobs begin, and soon he shares in this. "Nastazya… Please… It's not your fault, it's NOT your fault… I don't know what you saw in that haze, but it twists you, twists what you know. Gorrik said so, when you were out."

"Marc… It- it was all so raw. I can still feel the impact, that those words were true." Nastazya mutters amidst her weeps, bringing a hand up to grip upon her mate's arm for support, for consolation.

"…The haze, it… made me think Mallyx was in my head, even saw Kalla's warband as demons. And that wasn't true." The next words, he's unsure to share. But if he can't do it, he can't expect his mate to either, so with a light-voiced tone he reveals. "…It also showed me you, you… blamed me for abandoning you to chase after Rytlock in the Mists. You blamed me for letting Balthazar kill you, and still do to this day. Is that… All true?"

Nastazya falls stock still, her cries catch to silence. Now she knows all of that is not what she feels, not at all. "What…? No. No, no, that's not true at all-! Why would you even think that?"

"Because the haze made me, just like it's making you blame yourself right now." His embrace around his mate's neck and back grows a slight tighter, his breath staggers followed by a sniffle. "You see? It's not true, you're not to blame. You aren't…"

Ragewelder is silent for a while, meekly nuzzling her snout in the crook of her mate's neck. "…Burn me, how the hell are we meant to get through this? It all feels too much. How are we-?"

Furyclash cuts off his mate's words before she starts falling into another spiral, he needs to support her above all else right now, he needs her support at that too. "We'll get through this, Naz… We always do, always have done…"

She starts falling into the despair again, just thinking about that demon's effects on her. It's debilitating. "…I don't know how much more I can take… It's always us- Every. Time! Why…? Why is it always me?!"

"I don't know… But what I do know is despite everything, we're still here. I'm still here, and I always will be here for you. Alright? You got that?" He tries to assure her the only way he knows how, his presence.

"…I got it. I got it." Nastazya repeats, trying her best to pull herself back. But her doubts are still strong. "…Burn me, I don't want to go back there. I don't want Taimi and Gorrik to rip these… wounds back open."

"I know, I know. I don't either. I wish I had an answer to all this, I wish I did. Whatever happens after all this, I'll do anything to make things better for you, whatever it takes." Furyclash promises, with all his genuineness. His mate is everything.

Nastazya at least feels a calm over her, gradually. Her arm moves to embrace her partner's side. "I'll hold you to that, so you better not leave me. Don't you dare ever leave me."

Marcus' voice is soft, he's glad, she's finally calming down. He knows exactly the right words now, the words to ease her. "I promise, I'll stay by you, no matter what."

A sudden memory, rushes right back. All those years back, in Maguuma Jungle. "…I remember those words, as clear as day. When you returned…"

"And I still mean them just as much as I did then. Always. No matter how much it hurts, I'll be there by your side to help, I'll be your pillar."

"…You are, and always have been the one that keeps me standing." Ragewelder mutters, a smile finally forms upon the side of her teary muzzle.

A tender quiet now envelops the two, nothing like the anxiety filled silence from before. They both know, as long as they're together, it'll all work out.

Just before the two head off to get ready for bed, there's one last matter to speak about.

(So, Marcus. When were you planning to tell me you and that warmaster got together?) The voice arrives in Marcus' head, Tybalt, seems the spirit has found a new home to hang out in.

"…Naz, there's one other thing I have to tell you." Marcus says with some cheer, he gazes cheerfully into his mate's eye.

"Hm? What is it?"

"When I thought Mallyx was in my head, I got snapped out of it by another voice. Turns out, when I was reaching out for a voice to replace him, I accidentally invoked someone new." Furyclash explains, he seems rather happy about this one to her though.

"Who is it to get you smiling like that?" Nastazya asks, her joy returning to her face.

"Tybalt Leftpaw." He announces, the smile on his face seems to spread wider with it.

Her eye widens, now that is a surprise. "What? Really?"

"Yeah, it's great, hearing his voice again. I've missed him. Somehow I'm a better shot with him invoked too, so pretty damn useful too!" A light chuckle from the male charr, his ears then prick up.

(Hey! Are you saying I wouldn't be useful without that? You got so mean…)

Marcus grins. "Just playing with you, Tybs."

"I suppose something good did come of us going down to that delve… How much does he know about us?" She questions curiously, she doesn't know anything about when she was out cold.

"Not much really, his memories are still just back from Claw Island. He's surprised I got together with 'That Warmaster.'"

"Oh, really now?" Nastazya hums, brushing her chin with a finger. "So he doesn't know we have cubs either."

(YOU HAVE CUBS?!)

Marcus grimaces, that volume was a shock to his head. "…He does now." He mutters, with a slight chuckle afterwards. He speaks back to Tybalt now. "Yeah, Vita and Galvar, they're four now. Good cubs, Vita can be a little menace. Galvar is a quiet boy. We should go visit sometime, you can see them through my eyes!"

(Ohh, this is so exciting! I bet they're cute!)

"The cutest cubs on Tyria, right Naz?" Marcus answers, smiling to his mate.

"What kind of mother would I be if I said no to that?" Ragewelder shakes her head, a light laugh escaping. "They are, the both of them. They're who we fight for."

(As you should! Ahh, I missed so much, being dead and all. But better late than never! Couldn't get stuck in a better person's head.)

"Aw, Tybs. You're gonna make my ears red." Furyclash brushes the back of his neck. "He says as we should, he missed a lot, but he's happy he's stuck in my head at least."

Nastazya crosses her arms, though she's still smiling. "Guess I have to get used to you not having Kalla around all the time, don't I?"

"I'll have her around now and again, don't worry about that. But…" Marcus sighs deeply. "I really missed Tybalt, y'know?"

"I know you did." She nods softly. "I'm glad you've found him that way, suppose I'll see how things go."

"It's gonna be great, I know it." Marcus soon finds himself yawning. "Ah, burn me. Think it's time to sleep. We'll talk more tomorrow, Tybs."

(You got it! We're gonna have so much to talk about. Ahh, you got old Two-tibs A'whisker excited even more!)

"Singe my whiskers, I almost forgot about that name." Marcus laughs cheerily. "Ahh, Two-tibs A'whisker and Bloodcovered Backstabbing Blackjack the Blade. What a pirate team we were."

"Marcus, bed time before you get stuck in another conversation. C'mon." Nastazya urges him, she's rather jovial about it thought. She's happy to see him so glad.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming." Furyclash grins toothily, before finally joining his mate in readying for bed.

They've still got some doubts and fears hidden under their skin, fear about the oni and how to deal with it. But that can come when it comes, better to keep their minds focused on other things until then. Together, they can keep going on.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #charr #nastazya ragewelder #marcus furyclash #gw2 spoilers #writing #what lies beneath

6 notes · View notes