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theonevoice · 5 months

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Two halves of the same being

Ok friends, it had to happen sooner or later: I wrote a thing. I was stuck in a train station yesterday evening and this thing was screaming to be put on paper, so I did it. I wrote it all down directly as a post, over 3-4 hours of total estrangement, therefore I don't even know exactly how long it is, and it is probably encrusted with typos and titanic grammatical errors. It is also written in a language that I don't master at all, and it is my first attempt at narration since - I kid you not - the year of our lord 2006. This is really less then a draft, it's a test-drive of the storytelling side of my hyperfixated brain. If someone feels like skimming it and pointing out mistakes and things that sound wrong, I will be very grateful! Anyway, as far as fanfic genres go, I guess this would qualify as historical-minisode one shot: Aziraphale and Crowley are in Rome in 1509 and get more or less accidentally involved in the creation of a certain Renaissance masterpiece.

November 1509, Rome.

The heavy robe swooshed quietly as a white-blonde bishop entered the chapel door with a satisfied smile, like a man who had just escaped boredom for fun.

A man in a leather apron full of pockets and stained all over was standing at a cluttered table by the wall, staring gloomily at the figures sketched on a large sheet of brownish paper.

- Maestro!

The man raised his curly dark-haired head and pointed a pair of firey eyes on the newcomer. The dark circles around his eyes gave out the strange impression of a feverish man on the verge of collapsing mixed with a feral beast ready to jump at its prey. It was freezing in there, but he was wearing a shirt with sleeves rolled all the way up to his elbows, and his hairy forearms were covered in white dust and paint dribbles. He was a rather short man, but well-built and muscular, and even if the bishop was considerably taller and not thin himself, he felt that he could have easily knocked him down in one move.

- Monsignor Fell, back again...

The man didn't sound pleased, but he didn't sound displeased either. Considered his well-known temper and given the circumstances, his reaction was relatively welcoming. One could have even called it encouraging. After all, noone was ever really at ease in Rome. Especially not in that part of Rome.

- I was eager to see your progress. - Aziraphale said with a honest smile. - I hope I'm not disturbing your work. Please don't mind my presence.

They both instinctively looked up.

The enormous vault of the Sistine Chapel was looming over the empty hall as a giant shield, halfway covered in massive figures. Those bodies looked so real and heavy that they felt like they could plummet any second all the way down to the floor and crash the unfortunate bystanders. It was like a threatening storm of colors and shapes slowly covering the old starry sky.

- Not much progress to see. - Growled Michelangelo, turning back to the sketches and tossing a piece of reddish chalk on the table. - I'm bloody stuck.

Aziraphale moved his eyes across the ceiling, down to the farthest end of the vault, where the golden stars were still dimly shining on a deep blue background, on the two sides of the large ugly crack, now filled with bricks, that had scarred the old affresco when the south wall had shifted. It was a sad spectacle. He had liked the starry sky. It was beautiful.

- Stuck? How do you mean?

Aziraphale forced himself to look away from the ceiling and gently stared at the painter, who had turned his back on him and was angrily standing over his desk with his stained hands on his hips, like a severe father in front of a misbehaving child.

- I mean stuck. - The artist repeated drily, throwing an annoyed look at monsignor Fell. The bishop offered him a sympathetic smile, a strangely maternal smile that seemed to be saying that he took his worries very seriously but at the same time he was sure they were not insurmountable.

Michelangelo sighed forlornly. He didn't like priests, but he didn't mind this one. He curiously seemed very little concerned with church matters and a lot more interested in random things like paintings and statues and choir rehearsals. He had even spotted him more than once in a couple of his favourite osterie, and he meant the good ones, those small half-hidden godforsaken places that only the locals knew, ignored by travellers and definitely not visited by clergymen. And he had seen him sitting there in plain sight, amidst the common people of Rome, as if noone could tell that he was a bishop - and God knew if bishops were a hatred species in the streets of the Holy City. It was truly a miracle that he could just walk in there, eat and drink like he were any carter or boatman, and not end up robbed or stabbed or poisoned. He had even seen Teresina at the Gatto morto pour him the good wine once, the one that the innkeeper kept only for himself and his closest friends. Furthermore, he had a nice eye for drawing: in the past few weeks he had been visiting the chapel almost daily, and had dropped some genuinely good remarks. Some of them even brilliant. He relaxed his shoulders and continued with a softer tone:

- This is not working and I'm not putting this up there, con tutta la fatica che costa.

Aziraphale looked up again, this time at the wooden structure that was stretching upwards like a dark solid cobweb. It took indeed a lot of effort, to climb up there, dragging along the large cartoni with the refined lineart to transfer on the plaster, standing hours and hours arched backwards to paint over your head, seventy feet above the ground, with the colors running down the brush and dripping on your face...

- Do you mind me seeing the sketch?

The painter made a vague gesture to let him approach the table and eyed him with a certain curiosity when the bishop let out a little gasp and a peculiar nostalgic expression settled on his face. It was the sketch for the campata of the Original Sin.

Aziraphale felt a warm mix of emotions filling his chest, not all of which he dared to name. He focused on the drawing. Michelangelo was right: it was wrong, even if he could not imagine how wrong.

In the sketch, Adam and Eve were sitting at the center, under the Tree, Eve reaching up for a fruit, Adam following her movement with a concerned look. On the right half of the piece, in a stretch of desert, the confused shape of an angel was roughly outlined: he was standing all straight and rigid with his sword raised above his head and a threatening finger pointing at the first humans. The left side was mostly filled with a generic looking garden, too lush and too earthly at the same time, and the only other presence was a little, ugly dragon-like creature, with a grotesque charcoal snut, sharp teeth and a biforcated tongue sticking out.

Aziraphale at first didn't pay it much attention, but after a second he suddenly realised what he was looking at and his jaw dropped.

- Is that supposed to be the Serpent of Eden!?

He asked in a high pitched voiced, sounding somewhat scandalised.

Michelangelo frowned and pulled out his most intimidating look.

- What else should it be?

- But that's not how it looked at all!

The bishop exclaimed, entirely unfazed. "Here it comes," thought to himself the painter, letting out a huff of resigned annoyance, "another punctilious catechist who wants me to stick to some stupid half line in the Bible." But, much to his surprise, monsignor Fell did not bring up any biblical reference. He looked vaguely offended and at the same time, for some reason, deeply amused.

- And how did it look? - Michelangelo asked sarcastically, posing like someone who is interrogating an eyewitness. But the bishop didn't seem to get the hint, and instead answered with a focused face, as he were actually about to recount him old memories.

- Well, it looked... - Aziraphale paused, searching the right word. He found himself suddenly assaulted by a number of adjectives that he had not anticipated. - He looked... - his tongue ended up picking one before his mind had time to evaluate the implications - ...seductive.

- Seductive. - Michelangelo looked at him with an incredulous face and his eyebrows were all the way up to his hairline.

Aziraphale stumbled.

- I mean... He- he was the original tempter... - He tried to regroup. His thoughts were strangely tumbling in his head. - You see, in order to be effective in his... tempting, he couldn't have look like an ugly little monster. - Yes, that was reasonable, it was a logical explanation, just a sensible thing that nobody could disagree on. - He had to look... - but then again, Aziraphale felt a sense of warmth of unclear origin raising to his face, and his voice cracked in a weird way, - ...beautiful. Charming. He had to be so, so fascinating, that you couldn't help listening to him, considering his reasons... I mean, the poor, naive humans, that is. They couldn't help...

His voice trailed off mid sentence. Michelangelo was still staring at him with a certain look, but the words of the bishop were not completely absurd.

- And he didn't crawl. That was not what he was. - He finished with a sort of fond determination.

- You make it sound quite impressive, for the one who damned humanity.

- Oh but he didn't mean to! - Once again, Aziraphale ignored the astonished expression on the other's face. A deep, obscure feeling of injustice was tugging at his soul. He didn't mean to have them damned. It was an overreaction. His voiced lowered ever so slightly, sounding somewhat sad. - From his point of view, he was... freeing them. He was giving them a choice, he didn't force them. He was letting the door of their cage open to see what they would do.

- Does the Pope know that you go around spreading this sort of ideas?

- Pah, what should he know.

They both startled as that last sentence echoed in all its outrageous blasphemy on the high walls. They looked around in the empty chapel tucking their heads between their shoulders, like two kids who had just inadvertently laughed out loud during the silent bit of the mass.

A moment of embarassed silence fell in the room. But the words of monsignor Fell had already stirred the painter's imagination.

- Beautiful, you say... - He repeated, almost speaking to himself, squinting at the left corner of his sketch as a different version of the scene started emerging in his mind. - Not crawly...

The chapel door opened suddenly and a very alarmed young seminarist run inside.

- Monsignor Fell! - He cried. - I've been looking for you everywhere! The assembly started half an hour ago.

- Did it indeed?

The bishop replied, looking like someone who knew perfectly well when the assembly was scheduled and had deliberately made sure to miss it. Michelangelo found himself wondering once more where on earth had they found such a singular minister of the church, who was now tenderly smiling at the seminarist, visibly moved to pity by his distressed expression.

- Well then, I suppose I will be coming right away. - He gave one last look at the sketch as he stepped away from the table. - Thank you for your time, maestro. And forgive me for... - He hesitated, as if trying to free himself from some last string of thought that was keeping him tied there. - ...for my suggestions.

The painter watched the white-blonde head disappear beyond the door that the alarmed seminarist closed after them, and all of a sudden the vast chapel felt colder than it was moments before. In the silence he could hear that it was raining outside. He took a deep breath, felt the freezing air filling his lungs and a shiver running down his spine, but his mind was on fire: an entirely new image was coming to life, one that the pope would probably not appreciate, and that was the best part.

He decided to take the rest of the day off to work on his idea and run to the Gatto morto, where he knew that Teresina would free the little corner table near the fireplace for him, with a light good enough to draw and a wine good enough to keep himself inspired.

- Now that is quite the progress since the last time I saw it!

The man had approached him so silently that Michelangelo almost spilled his jug over the new sketches.

- What are you doing here, Antonio? Aren't you supposed to stay away from the city after the ban? Se ti prendono gli svizzeri ti fanno la festa.

- Oh come on! Do you really think anyone would notice me? - The man threw himself on the chair on the opposite side of the table and crossed his long legs, unwrapping himself from his large black cloak.

- Yes, I do. - He replied, expressively pointing at the man he knew by the name of Antonio, all clad in black, with his exotic smoked spectacles and his bright red hair brushing his shoulders.

Crowley raised his glass with a bright white smile, like he had just been complimented.

- I thought you were in Florence.

- I've just come back from a lovely visit to your dear friend.

- He's not my friend.

Crowley's smile grew even wider, and the painter suddenly felt ashamed and annoied. He had spent the last several years convincing everyone including himself that he did not consider Leonardo his rival, that he was perfectly indifferent to his achievements and was not at all vexed by people talking about him, and it had took all of ten seconds to this man to make him snap without even naming the other one.

- He is making some formidable machinery, these days. Oh, and some really masterful portraits. - His irritating grin was unbearable. - You should see them.

Draining all his will power, Michelangelo managed to keep his mouth shut and focused all his attention back on his new sketches.

- I'm busy, what do you want?

- I've come to see your progress! - Antonio said cheerfully, grabbing his drawings before he could stop him. - Quite impressive, indeed...

His expression became imperceptibly more serious as he was examining the small piece of paper where the painter had sketched a new version of the Original Sin campata. Michelangelo knew that he had not liked the first version: months before, he had come to his shop all swagger and cockiness as always, and after seeing the initial sketch of the Eden had left without saying a word and somehow had earned himself a ban from Rome. Not that it had stopped him from coming back on a whim just to mock him with news of Leonardo's incredible machinery, apparently. And after all, the swiss guard really seemed to ignore him to an impossible degree, as he were invisible. Michelangelo had a certain suspect that Antonio was having an affair or more than one with someone inside the Curia, earning the protection of a dame or two. Or a monsignore or two. Or both, whatever. Now he seemed struck by the new version of the scene.

The sketch was nothing more than a bunch of thick lines on a small piece of paper, but you could make out that the Serpent was no longer on the ground, but wrapped around the Tree, had no monstruous features but a human-like torso, and his head was towering higher than all the other characters in the scene.

Michelangelo watched him staring intentely at the drawing, with an unreadable expression on his face, until he put down the piece of paper with a careful movement.

- You're good, good job. - He said, trying to make it sound casual, but with a weird note in his voice.

- I know I'm good. - The painter said, grabbing the drawing angrily. - But this change is throwing off the entire composition. Now I have three characters in the middle and this one over here. - He muttered, pointing all disgruntled at what was supposed to be the Angel of Eden, who was sadly standing alone on the right side of the image like a piece of a column that someone had built there by mistake. A tentative detail of his profile, stern and scowling, was sketched sideways on the margin of the sheet.

- Why did you draw him so angry?

Michelangelo raised his head from his composition puzzle, not quite understanding what Antonio was talking about, until he saw his finger tapping over the profile.

- He's the Angel. - He said with a tone indicating that the implication was obvious. But the man sitting in front of him didn't seem to get the point. - He's the Angel who delivers the fucking wrath of God. He has to look angry!

- No he doesn't!

The painter straightened up in disbelief. What was with everyone that day? Why did every last person in that damn city had opinions on his work, all of a sudden?

- Oh sorry, should I make him all cheerful and smiling?

- Why would he be smiling?

- And what would he be?

Antonio took a second, and then aswered, deadly serious.

- Heartbroken.

- Why heartbroken?

- Because! - Crowley was not sure how to explain it, but he felt outraged at the idea that in all those century mankind had assumed the Angel was angry that day. - Because he was the Angel assigned to guard the garden of Eden, the first living bit of the creation! They left him there alone, to watch over the first humans, didn't give him istructions! Didn't tell him what to expect! And then he blinks and bam! they're damned, out of the garden, off you go struggling and suffering, you and all your kind for the rest of time!

Michelangelo was staring at him in utter surprise. He had known him for the kind of man who never loses his cool, and now here he was, losing it over the Book of Genesis.

- You didn't strike me as a man who would get heated over some biblical minutia.

Crowley leaned foreward, gripping his jug of wine so tightly that the painter could have sworn that he heard the glazed ceramic handle made a worrying crackling noise. The painter felt the instinctive urge to pull back on his chair.

- He was there, you see? Watching it happen, struggling to understand wether he had failed them or it was all part of God's blasting ineffable plan.

- He's the Angel of Eden! He would know the will of God!

- How would he know? - Crowley rebutted, now visibly enraged. - He's just an angel! And God doesn't speak to anyone. He's just an angel, he was there alone, scared to death... - he paused for a moment, like he had been struck by his own words, - scared to death because they were punishing the humans and making him deliver the sentence, but maybe they would punish him as well... for letting the Serpent get in.

He ended the sentence on a broken tone, and immediately after draw a small breath and gulped down his wine, all in one go.

Michelangelo wasn't sure what to make of it. Antonio didn't seem drunk, but that had been a wild rant. And yet, it could be interesting to draw an Angel of Eden that was not, for once, the usual severe messanger of death burning with God's divine rage, but a sad, sorrowful pal who had messed up his job. He thought of the merciful expression of monsignor Fell, earlier that day, when he had looked at the poor seminarist knowing that he had possibly gotten both of them into trouble by skipping the assembly.

Now he was starting to resent his composition, leaving that forlorn Angel out there, all on his own, while the others were grouped together under the Tree, as if they were having a pick nick. The humans and the tempter...

- The poor, naive humans... - he muttered, repeating the bishop's words.

- Well, - Crowley objected, apparently back to his usual composure, but still with an indefinible shadow on his brow, - they were naive only at the beginning. But after they became quite quickly aware of how the world runs.

- Well too bad, it has to be one or the other, I don't have two squares for the Eden scene.

But as he was saying that, a new image clicked in his mind, and he stared down at the piece of paper that he had been torturing for the past several hours, trying to solve his composition issue. The Tree was there, dead-center on the campata, dividing the space in two perfectly symmetrical spaces. The Serpent was already up there, in the branches: he could put the Angel there as well, and make the time flow from left to right, from happy but naive humans to desperate but aware ones, the two emissaries of Good and Evil standing in the middle as the two-faced needle on the scales of human destiny... no, not of Good and Evil, rather of Law and Chaos, of Safety and Freedom.

He raised his head with excitement and looked at the man in front of him. He was now sitting inhumanly still, and somehow Michelangelo could feel his eyes piercing through the smoked spectacles. He froze.

- Oh I know that glare. - Antonio said with a voice that he had never heard him before, a ghostly whisper, almost a hiss coming from another world. - That shine that sometimes burns in the human eyes, a spark from the forge of Creation itself...

Michelangelo felt an icey feeling gripping him from the inside, but he could not look away. He was hypnotised by invisible eyes, and even if the physical body of the man in black was still perfectly motionless, for a moment he believed he could see a different body, in a different shape, slowly swinging side to side with only his head fixed in the same spot, yellow pupils cutting through his soul like sharp knives through warm butter.

He wasn't sure how it had stopped. Next thing he knew, he was staring at Antonio who was looking at his drawings again, absorbed in his thought, with a sort of distant nostalgia in the curve of his mouth.

- I shall go. - Michelangelo said with a husky voice, as if he had been asleep for a long time. But he didn't get up.

- You shall. - Crowley repeated, looking back at him, this time with nothing strange happening. - That was a lot of inspiration to process for a human in just one day.

He launched his lanky body out of the chair with a movement that didn't seem possible, draped himself back in his heavy cloak, gave him a quick last look, and strode away, the light of the fireplace caught in his bright red hair. It was still raining outside, but there was a promise of snow in the air.

July 1510, Rome

The two corner doors of the antechamber opened at the exact same time and two hurrying figures rushed in and stopped just a split second away from running into each other.

For a moment they stood there, staring at each other, locked in place, the hem of the white robe and the flap of the black cloack swirling happily together like two puppies eager to meet again despite their owners.

- Good Lord!

Aziraphale gasped, finally stepping away from Crowley.

- Ah! What in Hell are you doing in here, dressed like that? - The demon snorted with a mocking grin, moving his gaze down Aziraphale's episcopal outfit and back up again, lingering on all the lacy bits with the most overtly suggestive motion he could perform. The short black capelet made a rather dashing contrast with the fair curls.

- I am on a diplomatic assignment. - The angel answered primly, ever so slightly blushing at the base of his neck, looking in turn at Crowley's tight fitting black attire under the cloak, all velvet and metalwork and shiny damasque. And then he lowered his voice and added, in a deliciously indignant tone, - What are you doing in here? We are on consecrated ground!

- Not quite yet. This is only an entryway and you should know damn well that nobody here is saint enough to make a single tile sacred outside the chapel.

Aziraphale tried to hoist an outraged expression, but it was hard to pretend that he didn't actually know damn well Crowley was right.

- Anyway, - the demon continued looking at the door on the other side of the entryway, - I was just passing by to take a look at the famous ceiling.

- It's not completed yet. - Aziraphale pointed out, immediately regretting it. He caught himself thinking that he didn't actually want the demon to leave. Not that he wanted his company, of course. But it would have been unpolite, with him being in the hosting party, so to speak, to send him away like that.

- I know, but I hear the last bit has made quite the impression around here.

- It has indeed! - The angel exclaimed, smiling and muffling his excited voice in a goofy way that made something twitch somewhere in the demon's chest. - The cardinals were utterly scandalised! I was going to take a look myself!

The angel moved to the door of the chapel and opened it cautiously, peeking inside.

- There's noone in there! - He whispered visibly thrilled, like the silliest conspirator who ever lived. Crowley stepped closer, thinking to himself that there was no end to the angel's childlike enjoyment of those little innocent transgressions. Not that he enjoied them too, of course. But it would be unworthy of a demon not to appreciate such evil deeds.

They both peeked out from behind the door. The chapel was empty, pleasantly crisp in contrast with the hot roman summer. A choir of cicadas was relentlessly chirping outside. The wooden structure had moved foreward since the last time Aziraphale had been there. A giant curtain was draped between the already completed campate and the ones still in progress.

Crowley managed to chart himself a path across the room, using the spare planks left on the ground as safe spots, holding his arms out to keep his balance, jumping from one board to the next and taking only a couple of quick steps on the floor when the distance was too great. Aziraphale was observing his movements from the corner of his eye and thought the demon looked like one of those large water birds that you could see flying by the river during winter, so big and yet so light and graceful.

The new part of the ceiling was hidden by the curtain. Without saying a word, they both moved to the ladder on the side of the wooden structure and climbed almost all the way up to the top. A strange expectant silence had fallen between them, and neither of the two wanted to break it. They knew exactly what they were about to see, but for some reason they were both pretending that they didn't, and the higher they climbed, the more they were steering their thoughts away from a certain shared memory that now, all of a sudden, was becoming inexplicably significant. A moment that had always been there, tucked away in their minds, but now seemed too bright to look at, too hot to touch, too heavy to handle.

They finally reached the main platform, the last large surface before the precarious scaffolding that brought the painter in reach of the ceiling, all still cluttered with buckets and rags and dried out palettes.

They stood by each other, breathing in the pungent smell of the paint, and with a synchronized movement looked up.

There it was. There they were. Their first meeting on Earth, as Michelangelo had envisioned it, channeling what the angel and the demon, unbeknownst to each other, had unintentionally lead him to imagine. He had turned the Original Sin into a backdrop, Adam and Eve into little more than extras on scene, leaving the center stage to them.

There it was. Their very first meeting as they, a recalcitrant demon who didn't mean to do anything properly bad and a doubtful angel who couldn't figure out what God wanted him to do. They were emerging from the Tree, the Wily Old Serpent stretching his beautiful androginous torso to the left, no man nor woman but both, passing Eve a fruit; the Angel of the Eastern Gate floating next to him, holding his arm out to the right, a disheartened look on his face as he used his sword not so much to threaten the humans as to direct them toward their earthly new existence.

- Look at you! - The angel smiled, - You're...

But the words died on his lips and he couldn't finish the sentence. Something heavy and mournful was tied to that part of his memory, like an iron anchor holding it under the surface of his conscience.

Aziraphale focused on the affresco, trying to distract himself with shapes and contours and brushstrokes... he felt a sudden burst of heat burning the skin of his face as he was studying the Serpent's coils spiraling up the Tree, and was startled when the demon spoke.

- He did make you sad.

The angel examined his supposed representation.

- I was sad.

- Yes, I remember.

- I felt so bad... so guilty...

Aziraphale felt Crowley's gaze settling on his face and lowered his eyes, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

- Guilty? Why? - The demon asked, with a hint of wonder in his voice.

The angels shrugged, twisting his hands and biting his lips with a tormented expression on his face.

- Because they were being punished, but I was the one who had failed them. - He looked up at the picture, but he was looking past it, rewatching a different scene. - And... and... - His eyes started stinging and watering, the effect of all that fresh paint no doubt, - And... had I spoken up for them...

He suddenly turned to look at Crowley, who was staring at him with his golden eyes wide open.

- They were only being curious... - the angel pleaded, and the effect of that paint was really terrible because an entire teardrop rolled down his cheek as he was speaking. - They only wanted to know things. And I let them be cast out and didn't say anything. - He took a short breath and his voice came out thin as a whisper - How will I be forgiven?

Crowley stood there without breathing, transfixed. His brain was struggling to process the angel's discourse, that pain for the humans, for their fault and their fall, and beyond that another pain, older, deeper, bleeding through his words like ink through thin paper. But the pain on the surface was easier to grasp and the other one was tangled in too many frightful thoughts, so the demon pretended that he had only caught the human part of that lament.

- I was the one who tempted them into that. - He said quietly after a moment of silence that could have lasted a second or a century. He felt like he was slightly suffocating. That paint smell truly was unbearable. It was even making his voice crack. - Do you still hate me?

A shocked expression darkened Aziraphale's face, and something behind his blue eyes seemed to crumble. There had to be a cloud hiding the sun, right in that moment, because up there under the vault the air became suddenly darker and colder.

- I never hated you. - He murmured. And then, with a wounded tone, - How could you think that?

The cloud moved away.

- It was my fault.

- I don't think it was.

They stood in silence again, and their confusion was so deep that a moment later none of them was able to tell anymore who had said "It was my fault" and who had replied "I don't think it was".

- We should get down, this smell is making me hazy. - Said the angel, sniffling.

- Yeah, this was enough church attending for me.

- Would you like... - Aziraphale paused, suddenly interested in a dented tin bucket who was draining all his attention, - Would you like to have lunch? I know a place.

Crowley opened his mouth and closed it again without making any sound, then opened it again and let out a couple of stumbling syllables before finally managing: - Well, I don't suppose that would hurt.

They exchanged a hesitant look and turned their eyes up at the two towering figures in the Garden of Eden one last time.

Michelangelo had given them two identical faces, the identical hair color, a shade that had been mixed somewhere in between a pale blonde and a bright red, and had put them up there, looking in opposite way but close to each other, almost hugging - the right arm of the angel almost around the serpent's waist, the right arm of the serpent almost around the angel's neck - as if they were twins, or lovers, or rather the two heads of the same chimerical creature. Two halves of the same being.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens fanfiction #go fanfic #fanfic draft #good omens fic #through the ages #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens in Rome #bishop Aziraphale #canon according to Furfur's guide

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wutheringmights · 1 year

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"We’ll Meet Again (Some Sunny Day)” - Unfinished Bonus Links Draft

Over half a year ago, I swore that I was going to write a story based on @ezdotjpg‘s @bonus-links, which I never finished. This is in part due to a) me being absolutely devoured by CTB, b) me realizing that this story was gonna take 20k to tell at a minimum, and c) me being struck with a wave of insecurity; in short, I got really worried that I was not writing War and Spirit correctly and was projecting too much CTB onto them.

I had resolved to wait until I see them in the comic so that I could get a glimpse of their dynamic in action, but that might take a while. So in the meantime, here’s what I have.

Some Notes:

Obviously, this is just a draft so the writing/editing may not be up to snuff

I tried my best to gleam mannerisms and personalities from some posts Em made way back when, which I am unsure is still canon or not

Spirit signs in order to work around a severe stutter for these sounds: B, S, Th, Ch, St, G, W; I based a lot of how he talks around that stutter on how I deal with my own speech impediment (which is not a stutter) (so take it with a grain of salt)

War has a cockney accent that, in the worst decision of my life, I attempted to write out phonetically; he then switches to something more posh and British sounding

Official Summary For The (Completed) Story:

Spirit and War have always haunted each other.

(Or: Spirit can see ghosts. War treats him like one.)

----

Spirit crouched before the engine, oil drenched up to the elbow when the bell over the workshop door chimed. Alfonzo typically took care of the stray window shopper who didn’t realize an train garage wasn’t a store, but Alfonzo was out on a run that took him to the farthest reaches of the Snow Realm. By all accounts, it was Spirit’s job to greet the shopper.

But Spirit was precariously balancing about six different wrenches, trying to keep the loose cogs in place as he fixed one of the engine’s inner mechanisms. He almost had it too. He couldn’t abandon it now, not even to return his workshop to its tranquility.

“S-sorry!” he called out, swearing when his gloves slipped on the largest wrench, causing the cog it held to slip out of place. “Just g-give—hold on for a moment!”

The customer didn’t say anything, but they didn’t leave either. Spirit could hear them meander around the messy space, observing the walls covered in framed pictographs and the shelves brimming with engine parts. Spirit did his best to ignore then, but his attention helplessly narrowed on the faint clinking of chain mail and the soft intake of breath from someone who was surprised.

Spirit didn’t necessarily hate noise. Trains were loud. But it was easier to concentrate when he was the only one making a ruckus.

Admitting defeat, he began tightening the cogs and screws until he could safely remove his hands. He sighed as he stood, wiping the sweat off his brow. Belatedly, he remembered the oil on his hands, and grumbled as he shed his gloves and pulled a handkerchief from his overalls pocket.

He blinked. Sometime between starting this project and now, the morning sun had disappeared in favor of velvety night. Yet, someone had turned on the oil lamps, dousing the garage in suffused orange light. The shopper must have lit the lamps.

Slowly, he turned hands already rising to sign his question. But before his fingers could start the first sign, he was met with a man too pretty to be real.

Pretty really was the best way to put it. He was a decent height, but not necessarily tall—not that Spirit, having not grown an inch since he hit double digits in age, didn’t need to crane his neck to make eye contact. His lashes were long, curtaining half-closed eyes as he bent down to the base of the last oil lamp. A match glowed between his fingers, the flame bursting when it caught the gas. The lamp lit up.

The stranger stood upright. Eyes bluer than the ocean flickered to Spirit. His face held a sophisticated gauntness that made even the act of blowing out the flame elegant.

Spirit fidgeted, suddenly self-conscious of how dirty he was in comparison.

The stranger was dressed to the nines in a well-kept green tunic, with a blue cape draped around his shoulders like tinsel on a tree, pinned in place by an opulent broch. Even his boots, the ones that had echoed around the workshop, were shiny with fresh polish.

A man like this wouldn’t normally look twice at him, even when he washed the oil away and put on his castle guard uniform. But this one smiled so brilliantly that the ornaments on his body couldn’t compare. “It heaven and hell is ya,” the stranger said, flicking the match away. His accent was thicker than molasses. It made every word sound long and chewed out. “It looks like ya kept yer promise, conduc'aw.”

Spirit stared. “I’m sorry?” he signed. “Who are you?”

The stranger’s face fell. His boot scuffed the ground in an aborted step back.

Spirit frowned. With the handkerchief, he scrubbed the oil from his face. Seems like this stranger really thought he was too good for the likes of him.

The stranger cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said and, like that, his accent was totally different. Each vowel and consonant was crisper than fresh laundry, each syllable perfectly creased into place. It threw Spirit through another loop. “I seemed to have been confused for a moment there. Are you perhaps the Royal Engineer they call Link?”

Spirit nodded.

The stranger seemed to study him for a moment longer.

Spirit scrubbed his brow again, trying to get the oil off his skin. Just who was this guy?

Finally, stranger smiled. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out his hand. It was pristine. Even his nails were finely filed. “I am also named Link, but I am called the Hero of War. Tell me—are you prepared to perform your duty as a Hero of Hylia?”

Spirit stared. “What?”

Line Break

The Hero of War said to call him the captain, or perhaps sir if Spirit wanted something more succinct. But that last part was said with a rakish smile, so Spirit rolled his eyes and settled on captain.

From there, War’s good humor disappeared. Face drawn, he explained everything he knew, which wasn’t a lot—portals had appeared in his time, and someone named Lana had handed him a map detailing where in Hyrule’s convoluted history they led to (actual Hyrule, not a reinvention like New Hyrule). War didn’t know why the portals had appeared, but he had been in a conflict many years ago that had a similar mechanism.

“Get your personal affairs in order and make your goodbyes,” War said when his explanation was done. It was a weekend night, and chatter of couples and friends finding entertainment for the night drifted through the workshop’s windows. “Take your time, but we should leave before the new day.”

“Who said I’m coming with you?” Spirit signed.

War arched a brow. His lips quirked into something that was almost amused. “Because you wouldn’t let anyone walk into danger. Not even a stranger.”

Spirit scowled and signed, “What makes you say that?”

“This is far from my first encounter with another sacred hero.” War meandered around the shop, making tiny faces at the hodgepodge of half-made machineries. Whatever congeniality he had built up soured the moment he realized there was black residue on his fingers. He pulled a worn, red handkerchief from his pocket.

Spirit’s attention narrowed on it. It was frayed to the point where little flecks of broken thread fell from it like rain. If there was ever a print on the fabric, it had long been drowned out by noxious black stains. The captain didn’t seem to notice them, primly wiping his fingers clean as he said, “We are all beholden to the same virtues.”

“I’m not a hero,” Spirit signed. “I’m a conductor.”

“I know a hero when I see one.”

“You’re looking for someone else.” Spirit marched over to the door, turning around so that War could see his hands. “You need to leave.” He ended on a curt jerk of the hand before yanking the door to the garage open, gesturing for War to reenter the bustling streets of Castle Town.

War frowned, but something else in his face shifted as well. His charm had disappeared, and Spirit heard a warning in the back of his brain as War folded up the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. “You are Link of Aboda Village. You have always been able to see spirits and ghosts, though you ignored your sixth sense in favor of apprenticing as a conductor and train engineer. Through hard work and study, you became New Hyrule’s youngest ever Royal Engineer.”

War walked up to him, ever footfall a punch to the gut. “However, your first months as the Royal Engineer were put on hold when the Spirit Tracks disappeared as well as the Princess Zelda. Luckily, your senses allowed you to see that she too had become a ghost when a dark demon ejected her from her body.”

Spirit’s hands shook too much to sign. They became fists at his side as he stuttered out, “St-st-st—”

“You fought the Demon Malladus and rescued the Princess Zelda. You restored the Spirit Tracks across Hyrule. You were given charge of a sacred train as well as a sacred sword. You are the successor of the Hero of Winds and an incarnation of the Hero’s Spirit.” He stopped right in Spirit’s face, close enough to make Spirit feel insignificant. “And you dare to tell me that I have the wrong person? Rest assured, Link of Aboda. I know more about you than you realize.”

Spirit stuttered over a few more syllables. Forget that. Without bothering to vocalize or sign, he pointed out the door. Get out.

War stared down at him for a moment longer. The corner of his mouth twitched the way Zelda’s did whenever she didn’t want anyone to know how mad she was. But his eyes were a different story. They softened, losing their intensity so quickly that it threw Spirit off kilter. “I’ll leave then,” he said gently. “If that’s what you desire.”

He stepped back, giving Spirit a little space. War managed a little smile before miming the tipping of his hat. “Good day, conductor. May the Spirits of Good guide you.”

His blue scarf trailed behind him as he left, entering the dark streets of Castle Town.

Spirit slammed the door back shut and pulled his gloves back on. He was retired from the hero business, thank you very much. If Zelda couldn’t convince him to join the Castle Guard, then War couldn’t convince him to drop his entire life and go on some cross dimensional adventure.

But staring at his abandoned engine, Spirit couldn’t muster up the enthusiasm to pick up his wrench and get back at it. All he could see was the gleam of the pommel at War’s side, how genuinely hurt he seemed when Spirit had turned him down.

How did War know his story? The only people in New Hyrule who knew everything about Malludus was himself and Zelda.

Did that even matter when War seemed like the type to throw himself into battle headfirst, heedless of whether he lived or died?

Spirit groaned and tossed the wrench aside. Barely grabbing his keys, he ran out of the workshop. Under the streetlamps, drunkards emptying the taverns glowed gold. Spirit stood on the cobblestone street, searching for the long blue scarf in the crowd.

“Hey.” Behind him, War leaned against the side of the garage. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he chewed a piece of candy on the side of his mouth. He grinned. “Changed your mind?”

Spirit frowned. “Give me three days,” he signed. “I need to make preparations.”

War almost choked on his candy. He banged a fist on his chest and spat it out. “Three days? We can’t wait that long!”

Alfonzo was due to return from his run by then. It would also be enough time for Spirit to finish his project and arrange replacements for the runs he was already scheduled for, as well as contact Niko and Zelda. He didn’t think War would understand that, but he hardly signed, “I need to get some things done” when War sighed.

“Well…” He mulled over it for a moment. “I have no choice but to agree. Three days it is.”

Line Break

Spirit was no stranger to ghosts. There was one now that frequented his apartment a few blocks from the workshop. It was the lingering spirit of the old woman who lived there previously, and she hated how dirty he kept his space. She seemed determined not to move on until Spirit learned some housekeeping. It was easier to just sleep at the garage.

But War couldn’t sleep at the garage. There was only one bed and it was harder than a sheet of steel: unbefitting of a man well-acquainted with the finer things in life. So Spirit had to take him home. He had half a moment to be embarrassed by the number of dishes he’d left to mold in the sink as well as the pile of oil-covered clothes and half-finished projects he’d left strewn about before War sighed and unpinned his scarf.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Of course, of course, of course.” He folded it nearly on the table, then added his sword and shield next to it. Then he rolled up his sleeves and started picking up the mess.

Spirit stuttered his own swear before rushing to help.

“Sorry I’m such a bad host,” Spirit signed when War did the dishes.

“Nonsense. It’s not as though I had given you any warning.” War scrubbed at a plate like he wanted to do much worse to it. “I remember when I first began living alone. It took me quite some time to master my own space. Speaking of which, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

War paused. “Oh.” He set the plate aside. “You are much too young—to live alone, I mean.”

Spirit clicked his tongue and signed, “And not fight some evil?”

War barked a laugh. “If anything, you’re much too old for that.”

Spirit didn’t know what he meant. So while they did laundry under the midnight moon, War told fantastical stories of a hero who had fallen from the sky and the children who followed in his footsteps—their progenitor, their legacy.

The next three days were spent

#i literally haven't touched this since hold on let me check my doc #APRIL???? I HAVEN'T TOUCHED THIS SINCE APRIL????????#DAMN OK OK OK OK OK #I'm sorry but ctb is literally all i have time for right now #bonus links #bonus links fanfiction #bonus links spirit #bonus links war #bl spirit #bl war #legend of zelda #loz #loz fanfic #me writing #fanfic draft #yes the title is a reference to the vera lynn song it's relevant #we'll meet again

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donniesexceptionalmind · 8 months

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do you have any stories that are primarily about times that one of your brothers/april helped you through a panic moment?

I've once had a panic attack when I visited April in school.

A fire alarm.

A simple fire alarm, which, of course, was JUST a test, but April & I had forgotten about it.

We were sitting in the computer room, doing her science assignments together.

I was so occupied with doing research that the sudden noise caught me completely off guard.

April was quick to react: she immediately grabbed my hands tightly to make me feel grounded & she connected her phone with my headphones to start playing my favourite playlist to overtune the symphony of noises by students & the ringing alarm.

Students looked at with an expression I'd interpret as negative as they started to follow the instructions given.

April stayed beside me the whole time & she hissed at everyone that looked wrongly in our direction.

Raph picked me up & I could decompress in my lab.

We all need an April ✨

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ssarthestar · 10 months

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Fanfic head canons Bandit Au Explanations,

So for those of you who don't know the Bandit Au universe is when Enid kills Tyler by accident and runs away in a nut shell, Wednesday grows up to become a detective because she finds it so strange how Enid was presumed dead but a body was never found.

Enid disguise is her Wolf mask, she wears all black now to blend in even though it's different from her usual taste anything with color leaves a sour taste in her mouth reminding her of her past

Here's a snippet of chapter one of "Wolf In Sheep's Clothing"

#a03 writer #fanfic draft #wenclair

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savage-rhi · 8 months

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Dawkins: A Death Stranding WIP

Summary:

This is a little WIP section of a new Death Stranding fanfic I've been developing based around my OC Gene Dawkins. Some may be familiar with Gene in my fics Sky of Atoms, and Death Stranding Rewind. These stories followed Gene and her relationship with Higgs Monaghan. With this new story, I'm making it more centered on her own life with an overarching plot that ties in with what we know from the game (and possibly DS2 when it comes out). I don't anticipate writing for this story until my other works are complete, but I wanted to put this out for fun and see if there's interest. Feel free to reach out or reply if you want. Thanks for reading!

Gene had never in her life felt this cold before. Her skin trembled while sweat pooled down her face. She felt warm like a fever had taken root. The single blanket provided to her seldom helped, even as she bundled further. Her legs dangled over her assigned coffin, feet gently touching the tiled floor. The piercing cold had her retreat with a hiss. She lifted her right foot up, setting it across her lap, and inspected her sole. There should’ve been frostbite or even a burn given how painful it was. Nonetheless, there was no sign of such a wound much to Gene’s relief.

“They weren’t kidding about side effects,” Gene murmured to herself with a laugh. Furrowing her brows, she realized it would be a while before she could enjoy being back in the land of the living. Especially when her body or Ha, was registering that her spirit, Ka, returned from the Beach and the five planes.

Despite having an easy time reintegrating, Gene’s mind was rattled at all she had experienced. The Beach, and all the others connected, were as intricate as stars in a galaxy; boundless. And like stars, beaches shimmered and exploded; returning to the dust from wence they came with new ones coming to take the mantle.

The BTs were another thing that overwhelmed her. On earth, they were more or less the boogeymen of the modern world; a byproduct of the Death Stranding and its calamity. On the five planes, they had their own ecosystem and life cycle. Gene could scarcely remember it entirely, but when her Ka had walked among them, something clicked. There was a purpose to everything, even monstrous creatures with nuclear capability if they contacted the living.

“Hey, sleeping beauty!”

Gene turned her head, seeing Odd standing in the doorway carrying a medium-sized box.

“Is that you, or my sleep paralysis demon?” Gene quipped with a tired laugh, shaking her head.

“Would both be a sufficient answer?” Odd chuckled.

“Depends if you want to get hit in the face or not,” Gene shrugged with a grin. Her eyes followed Odd as he ventured further into the room, and pulled up a stool from afar to sit across from her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I died,” Gene answered point blank. “Does this happen every time you go Walking?”

“For a while, yeah. Your Ha will get used to it.” Odd nodded truthfully. He let out a breath he had been holding back since Gene had undergone the ceremony and smiled.

“I knew you’d pull through!”

Gene canted her head, raising a brow in suspicion.

“What?” Odd asked.

“I swear I hear doubt in your voice.” Gene grinned.

“Nah, never.” Odd chuckled, waving off the accusation with his hand playfully. “Although, you had me worried back there, on the shores. Most have their breakthrough before ascending to the Beach and five planes.”

“Guess I'm special," Gene murmured, recalling how terrifying that ordeal was. One moment, she was feeling the energy of all atoms in the air and sky, and then a wave of tar crashed into her being and pulled her into the ocean. “I’m glad you and ANUBIS were there to pull me out, or...I guess I should be calling you SET now considering the circumstances.”

“It’s about time you started treating me with some authority!” Odd chuckled and further laughed at the playful grimace Gene evoked.

“Don’t get all cute,” Gene countered. “You may be the better Death Walker, but I’m still the best porter between us.”

“You do have me in a bind there,” Odd admitted with a soft laugh. His expression changed, going from carefree to concerned. He held it for a while, glancing over Gene as if looking for a hidden injury. “I know you already told me, but for clarity's sake, what did you see during your breakthrough?”

“I can’t remember it all. It was sudden, like a light going on and off.”

“Try to remember the core of it.” Odd encouraged. “The feelings you had, and any images of significance.”

Gene made a face, feeling the hairs on her arms stand. She remembered drowning, feeling the very essence of her Ka expanding and contracting before a fury of images was suddenly downloaded into her consciousness. Deep down, she didn’t know if she would ever recover from it.

She closed her eyes, trying to give her brain the chance to sort through what experiences her Ka had taken into itself.

“I saw the world,” Gene began, and gesticulated with her hands to emphasize her points. “And out of this…void, came a large snake. It coiled around the globe ten times over, squeezing what it could. Then the snake stretched its neck and looked up at the sun. I saw it rise, sprinting toward it. Its mouth opened, and it swallowed the rays and eventually, the whole sphere, but the sun escaped and the snake retreated back into the darkness.”

Gene opened her eyes when she was done recounting. “Then I saw you and ANUBIS pulling me out of the surf.”

Odd, nodded. The concern he displayed from before died down as he smiled with pride. His fingers gently tapped the medium-sized box, and he offered it to Gene.

With a shaking hand, Gene retrieved the box. She raised a brow at Odd after glancing between the package and him.

“What’s this, a funeral gift?”

“More like a welcoming present.” Odd corrected with a laugh. “You survived the ceremony, the breakthrough, and found your patron. It’s only fair you earned one of these to help you travel to and from the Beach.”

Gene began to unwrap the box, her smile growing big as each layer was peeled back. When her mask was finally revealed, Gene paused to look over the details. It reminded her of a half-face Oni mask that samurai would wear into battle, to scare the souls out of their enemies. The structure was reptilian in nature, resembling the maw of a dragon. The teeth were small, save for a pair of fangs that a cobra would be envious of. The mask was near pitch black, and the teeth were covered in gold chiralium. Though Gene knew this was a tool for her new job, it was also a work of art. Something crafted with devotion.

“Did you make this, or did the UCA?” Gene asked in awe.

“Yours truly!” Odd gestured out with both his arms and grinned. “Once you told me what your breakthrough was on the Beach, I started carving with the printers as soon as I woke up.”

As Gene combed over every inch of detail, she noticed a small inscription on the lower left side of the mask. In silver etching was inscribed the numbers 006 with a dash in between, and a name in all caps. She furrowed her brows, then finally peered up at Odd who gave her a beaming smile, much like the ones used to wear all the time when they were both children.

Odd stood up, rummaging Gene’s hair playfully. In between exhausted laughs, and Gene shoving his arm away, Odd crouched in front of Gene. The determination in his eyes had her smiling back in admiration.

“I better let you rest. You’re gonna need it before we go Walking again.”

“More like I need to hibernate.” Gene snorted.

“Then I will speak no more!” Odd chuckled and rose to his feet. He ventured to the door of Gene’s quarters. Before disappearing from view, Odd turned around, meeting Gene’s gaze.

“Welcome to the DUAT, APEP.”

With a wink, he was gone and Gene’s eyes fell back onto the mask. Her fingers traced over the word APEP and she swallowed.

The serpent eating the sun came back to her. Except, the sphere didn’t escape from the clutches of the giant reptile. The planet disappeared into its gaping maw, and then there was darkness, and what could only be described as a supernova and fire following suit. Then came the screams of billions.

A part of Gene wanted to tell Odd the truth; that there was more to her breakthrough than what was shared. Nonetheless, Gene couldn’t help but feel the need to keep to herself. It could wait until later. She and DUAT had bigger problems; capturing those responsible for destroying Middle Knot City.

She playfully put the mask on her lower face, and breathed in deep while her eyes closed. There would be justice.

#death stranding #death stranding fandom #gene dawkins #death stranding oc #higgs monaghan #death stranding fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic wip #writing wip #gene dawkins oc #fanfic draft #been forever since ive done anything with the fandom #been missing it too

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annika-thelostlove · 1 year

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Hello friends! <?>

It has been a while since I've posted, I've been quite busy working a new freelance job. But I have every intention of posting all my Paul Dano fics regardless of how many years it may take 💔🥲

I have an idea of posting my short/long first drafts here. I have a habit of writing fic plots when im feeling down (it lifts my mood). They will be badly written, but it is for anyone to enjoy! if anyone likes some of the premises, people are free to take the ideas from them!

Thank you Danonation 💚💚💚

#paul dano fics #paul dano fanfic #danonation #edward nashton x reader #edward nashton #my fic #fanfic #paul dano #paul dano x reader #fanfic draft #simon feck #percy dolarhyde #tim klitz #calvin weir fields

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scavengerssuccotash · 3 months

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Sneaky Peek at Chap 26 of Sightline. WIP, Draft.

I made myself sad!

😢

Tissues?

Edit: damn…you really do only see the mistakes after you publish 😭

#Sightline #phil coulson #Barbara Morse #SHIELD agents #clintasha #fanfic draft #fanfiction #a03 fanfic #a03 writer

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denimaww · 1 month

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Chapter 2 of Contractum ad Solis et Carnis published!

Fuck it, I dropped chapter 2 tonight as well.

Chapter 2 draft: “Ah, well, I am still figuring out the details myself. By all means, do keep your knife to my throat if it makes you feel safer, but I would appreciate it if you gave me the grace of sitting down. As you have noticed by now, I am quite afflicted.” Astarion had no intention of letting him do so. But Raphael was after all the stronger one, and having figured out that Astarion was too intrigued to kill him yet, he simply sank down to his knees on the floor with his hands held lazily in the air to signal defeat, forcing Astarion to follow down with him, if he wanted to keep the dagger to his throat. The vampire stood bent over the cambion and shifted the grip of his hand on the horn to better angle Raphael’s head. Astarion was surprised and unnerved that Raphael would show such weakness as to sink to his knees. But Astarion did not let his guard down.

#bg3 fanfic #baldurs gate 3 #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #bg3 astarion #bg3 raphael #bg3 astarion/raphael #fanfic draft #ao3 #ao3 writer #ao3 link #fanfiction

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the-rambling-fatebender · 11 months

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I have no idea why I keep making Azuriel's backstory this complicated. But i felt her "noble heritage" needs justification, since it clashes with the very first verse of The Predestination. I could have just wipe it off by some free interpretation bs (which i did, partly), or could have ignore it, (as one failed Tel'Imaltath wrote, it was never meant to actually come true - so why would any detail be accurate?) But NAH,

I love to suffer, so here's the outline of this chaos of a family tree, and some event explanation in the Arquen family's past. I DON'T ENCOURAGE anyone to suffer it through, because it is a mess, and makes little to zero sense after all, but i really enjoy doing some extra worldbuilding stuff - BECAUSE I know, I SHOULD DRAW rn, but i can't :D I genuinely appreciate though if you really DO suffer through this shit: You're AWESOME! But you've been warned :D And if you don't wanna read all this random rambling, here's a conclusion: - The 'Arquen family 'started with a "commoner" receiving a fief and a title - a very minor one, compared to their overlords but still. - after a couple of generations the fief and the title has gone because of severe debt, so basically the folk involved became destitutes. To pay off their debt, the descendants had to serve at Stonefield from a very young age.

Lyana's dad finally managed to restore the family's status and the land, plus become friends with Lord BB. MegaWIN.

HOWEVER he committed that specific mistake (blood is blood after all or what...) to fall for one of the Boddenbruuk servants, an aeterna lady. (i want to clarify here that the majority of Stonefield servants were not Arquen descendants so this is not an incest tale :D )

So in the end, Azuriel was not even nominally noble from many aspects. She hasn't inherited jack shit, she was not raised as one, her ancestors were destitutes for a couple of generations; But still she is, according to some well hidden parchments. :DDD

See? I could have done it the easy way, but i went bonkers instead inventing this overcomplicated shit. :D --------------------------------

PT I.

~ 200 yrs ago, Lyana’s very great-great grandfather Darius (nicknamed, „the tall”, bcz his stature was closer to the Aeterna, despite of being Alemanne)

was given the honor, along with the noble name „Arquen” (meaning ’knight’ – loanword from old aeterna) for his„exceptional military services”* as a footsoldier of the Middlerealm. Property was also given with the title: Casle Ledur and the surroundings → later became „Arquen Manor” (*copy of the deed of gift Azuriel has found in Erothin Archives) - Couple of generations, until one of the Arquens (Aster) accumulated a debt* that the Boddenbruuk countess at the time,(Lady Sedna, decided to confiscate the manor. ( →plus Aster married a half-aeterna minstrel, Aelune, which was not only unusual, but Middlerealm overlords did not took it kindly for their weird reasons)

(*at least that’s the reason named in the copy of the decree says, which can also be found in the Erothin Archives)

-The family got disbanded – however the able bodied youngsters of Aster and Aelune were taken to Stonefield as squires; Aster and Aelune's exact fate is unknown.

-One of the kid, (Theodore Arquen, granddad of Damian) managed to remain at the Countess’ service (guard captain), settled down, got married (Moira), and tried to intrique his way around in hope of redeeming back their status. (ofc this didn't work out this way)

-ThenDamian Arquen, dad of Azuriel happened (he was the sole child of Nestor Arquen and the miller’s daughter Avina)

- At 7, Damian was taken under old Lord (Ansgar) Boddenbruuk’s tutelage because of Avina and Nestor’s premature death, and as usual, his squireship began at the same year, under the then 17 year old Lothar Boddenbruuk. -At the age of 19, Damian had been accoladed to knight, and the ever growing tension between the Middle and the Northrealm created an opporunity for him to prove himself:

-on his very first campaign he was assigned to accompany the Boddenbruuks (Old Ansgar and his son, Lothar, 29 at the time (who was, btw widow to Lady Anabel Rhamalion.)

-At the age of 20, though the campaign was not entirely succesful (They won the Battle of Mortram, but were unable to advance further to the Capital, and Lothar got wounded.) - For his strategic and military prowess, and for "saving his ass" in the battle, Lothar restored Castle Ledur and the „Arquen manor” back to the Arquens – Damian – and they became close friends. -In turn, oath of allegiance and other mandatory bs followed for becoming a vassal of the Boddenbruuks - again.

PT II. Damian & Lylien Arquen As Damian were a frequent guest in the following year in Stonefield as the Lord’s friend, he started to develop feelings towards a young aeterna maidservant of the Boddenbruuks, Lylien (19 at the time.) -To set ages right for that time:

***Lord Lothar Boddenbruuk, 30, ***Lady Anabel Rhamalion (deceased after giving birth to their daughter, at the age of 18, would be 22) ***Little Antoinette Boddenbruuk, 4, ***Lylien 19 ***Damian Arquen, 21 - Problem was, Lothar BB also grew fond of Lylien (rather use the term obsessive*), although he tried everything in his power to conceal his feelings..

*triggered by the fact that Lylien’s resemblance in complexion and mannerism to the late Lady Anabel was striking, despite of the former being a lowborn aeterna, while Anabel was of normanne descent. - Lylien reciprocated Damian’s feelings over time, and he eventually asked her (and even the permission of Lord Boddenbruuk) to the marriage. - Obviously he hesitated a bit, used the good ol bad reputation of intermarriage first, then Lylian's importance as "the best" maidservant for his little Antoinette - as an exucuse.

-He eventually threw the towel in with ONE condition: Lylien continues her services* in Stonefield castle regardless of her new home and ’status’.

*she had to „commute” six days a week, but teleportation magic was fairly common back then despite the Chancellor’s disapproval.

-in the 1st year of Lylien & Damian’s marriage: A boy was born in 9897 a. St. → Sylras. Lothar became even more desperate, caught between the battle of his affection, and his friend.

-He grew resentful but still managed to act as the family’s friend tho, partly bcz he needed his friend’s support to a campaign* against a so called Bandit Prince (who nestled in the county, robbed /enslaved merchants and travellers.

*was deliberately unsuccesful but SsSsHhShh! -He tried to show nothing of his internal battles, however suppressing his feelings towards Lylien festers inside him.

-Meanwhile, Lylien and Damian even planned a second child - however there were some difficulties this time around, and they had to rely on travelling apothecary’s help (a special herbal medicine* - to make a second pregnancy happen.

*motherwort and milk thistle suspension - not that if this is an important detail to point out)

-Around this time (in the 7th year of their marriage, Sylras being 6), when Lylien’s doing her chores in Antoinette’s bedchamber (girl had riding lessons in that time period) Lord Lothar saw the moment of opportunity that he has taken advantage of… And regretted later.

-Lylien didn’t tell anything to Damian, partly because of shame and partly because she was afraid of Lothar BB - this was not the first sign of him being a wacko

- Approx 9 months later, in 9903. a. St. Lyana Arquen was born. Lyana herself, and nobody else ever could figure out if she was Damian’s or Lothar Boddenbruuk’s daughter.

(Fun fact: she was Damian’s triumph the day before the incident, but when she finds her mom’s diary, she believes her assumption that she might be Lothar’s -Anyway, years went by „as normal”, but Lord BB started rapidly losing his grasp on reality while trying to maintain the facade of bffs with the Arquens.

- HE did the math and grew paranoid that the child might be his, what if later shows resemblance of him and sparks suspicion, or Lylien might eventually tell Damian what has truly happened and he will seek justice or revenge.

-perceptions distorted, he grew bitter and hateful, which resulted in reckless actions, at the time when Lyana was about the age of 5, Sylras being 11,

-in 9908. a. Starfall, 5th of The Departure

-He came to an agreement with the Bandit Prince, and promised him Castle Ledur as a payment IF his team manages to „eliminate” the Arquens*. Preferably by making the whole thing look like “things got out of hand”. (*No witnesses. Thus their household servants and their serfs also „had to go”.

-This way he could sort of “provide” the demand of slave materials to the Prince and he also promised a bonus if he manages to do so by eliminating all evidence of the act being ordered by him..

Which the Prince deliberately ignored after nested into Castle Ledur, and entered into a contract with Lady Alcazar to gain control over the Steel Rail mine. He kept the parchment with the sigil of Lothar among other whatnot in their secret vault, where Azuriel found it, 15 years later.

#nehrim #fanfic draft #this is stupid but who cares #azuriel #vynblr #oc #shadowborn #this is nuts #overdone #backstory

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king-hsssy · 5 months

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Working on my Silverhawks murder mystery fanfic （＾Ｏ＾☆♪)

#I am researching rn on stylistic techniques I already have the characters picked out and developed #it’s been so much fun and is reminding me of my creative writing class I took in high school #silverhawks #fanfic draft

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the-villainous-ace · 9 months

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Concept has been on my mind since this song showed up in the Azirephale playlist on Spotify

I haven't finished the second season yet so no spoilers really.

"Can't Take My Eyes... Off Of You"

#making up #serinade #musical number #dramatic declarations of love #I was wrong dance

Aziriphale is angry with Crowley,

Or as angry as his nature can tolerate without feeling guilty. Which in Azeriphale's case consisted of feeling rather disappointed, cross, and a little hurt, rather than the standard intense urge to call forth lighting to smite down who ever displeased you.

He did want to forgive Crowley. forgiveness is one of his favorite things, and he got immense satisfaction from doing it and he feels he's quite good at it.

At this moment though.

Abstinence, he felt, is also a good virtue that he, as an Angel, can exemplify*

*(unless of course he was asked to abstain from partaking in sushi, chiffon cake, filet mignon, crepês, oysters... well I think you see the point)

After Crowley's latest flame-up *(in that he had been both very ubset and on fire) the "I was wrong" song/dance just wasn't going to cut it...*

*(he'd already tried)

He was going to have to do something terrible, something unthinkable for a demon. So embarrassing that if anyone else saw what he was doing he would never be taken seriously again by heaven or hell.

It could mean the death of him...

⬇️ Continued...

Crowly serenades Aziriphale using a song by "Franky Valley" (an Azirphale favorite). He hopes that by using the lyrics as a viechle, he can say what he feels honestly without his demonic rationalities* (or rather the insecurrities that had gotten him into this mess with Aziriphael in the first place)* interfering.

His voice cracks like the words are being painfully strangled out of him, forcefully and against his will. figuratively speaking though it could be said to go even a step further than that.* (it should be also said that at the way it's going, he may have to physically start to strangle himself to put an end to his nervous hissing)*

Crowley, as he begins his prostrated psalm, is engaged in a heated battle of wills within himself as he bites out mawkish lyrics that, despite their fluff, cut into his deeper feelings like a sharp doctor's knife and then began to rip them out of him, like they were to be displayed in jars of formaldehyde like feet and tumours and other grotesque specimens collected by resurrectionists.

But to Aziriphale, unaware of Crowley's painful effort, it seems like Crowley's usual begrudging-ness to apologize, only slightly elevated due to the increased humiliation he was no doubt struggling to endure, but still lacking in the humility Aziriphale thought he deserved from the demon.

He steels his resolve further, to remain un-budged by the display...

Sensing Aziriphale turn colder, Crowley plunges further to dig out his forgotten heart and force it open. Like going full gas, 100 mph in a 33' Bently through blazing hellfire all over again, he resolved himself to see it through. Even if he caught fire (which he was beginning to feel like he might... Again... )

And he thought that if he could do that, then he could damn well get through this song!

He's singing now, actually singing, not just spitting the words out like they were a fly in his mouth.

He'd gotten past the hard bits of the song. The bits about Heaven, and God, and a 4 letter word beginning with L that he sort of muttered, his pronunciation sounding like he had only just managed to stop himself from being sick.

But now he was singing, his voice carried out and he felt embarrassed at the number of emotions that seemed to tremble through it.

He couldn't remember when the last time he sang was, if he had ever at all. Maybe it was before he had "sauntered vaguely downwards", when he was still a part of the heavily choir praising god (when he wasn't busy building galaxies and nebulas and constilations).

Or maybe it was a couple of centuries ago in a bar drawling out a funny tune in merriment with sloshed company. Or it could've been yesterday singing along with Freddie absentmindedly knowing all the words from their constant repetition. The point was he couldn't remember if he had ever actually sung, but he certainly had never sung like this before.

He began to move too,

He had planned to dance. He didn't plan a dance perse *(attempting to choreograph a dance for a confession/apology was taking the embarrassment too far he felt)* He just sort of glided and swayed in the way only he could, in a manner that felt the right way to go about it when he'd seen it performed by others. Dancing certainly had felt more natural than singing to him till now.

Azeriphale's eyes widened in astonishment and he could feel himself start to twitch. He'd started to feel sort of tingly all over, like his body was trying to tell him something but his thoughts just hadn't caught up yet. All the chocolates, that he had indulged in earlier like he was attempting to stuff a deep void, felt like they had transformed into a swarm of rowdy caterpillars and were now dancing the gavotte! *(Of course the chocolates-turned-caterpillars could've been dancing any number of dances but the gavotte is what Aziripheal knows best)*

Crowley was staring at him.

This wasn't new and it wasn't as if he'd only started again a second ago. He had been staring since he'd come into the shop, he'd felt it and it hadn't ceased. But Aziriphale suddenly felt embarrassed about it. As Crowley sang, Azeriphale suddenly got the feeling that they were both remembering 6000+ years of that stare. And suddenly it wasn't just a stare, it never was, it never had been.

6000+ years and only now he knew what it had meant. The meaning it held now as their eyes glued together.

Crowley slid forward.

Aziriphales's face grew hot, the catterpillars had metamorphosed into butterflies that we're now fluttering in a hurricane of anticipation.

He took in a sharp breath.

The black slits of Crowley's eyes shook, advancing further, finishing the refrain...

"You're just too Good to be true...

Can't take me Eyes... Off of You~... "

•••

Wanted to just jot down my idea and ended up with a full-on drabble of at least 1000 words (I think anyway, I didn't count). Hard to write out and illustrate in words what you see as more of a colorful musical number visualisation in your head.

Divine inspiration triggered by the "I was wrong" dance from episode 1 of season 2 (It lives in my head rent free) and a favorite of mine "Can't take my eyes off of you" by Frankie Valli.

What if Crowley and Aziriphale fought and the only way Crowley could think of to get Aziriphale to accept his apology is to confess his feelings and the only way to do that was to masquerade them in an"I was wrong" dance trojan horse?

(side note I need a gif of Crowley doing the I was wrong dance like I need air to breathe and food to eat, additionally I would give my left arm, my college tuition and my soul to see David Tennant as Crowley perform this song)

Here's the lyrics to the Song for added context but you could also listen to it using the link at the top of the post

Lyrics - "Cant Take My Eyes off of You"

-Frankie Valli

🎶🎤🎶

You're just too good to be true

Can't take my eyes off of you

You'd be like Heaven to touch

I wanna hold you so much

At long last, love has arrived

And I thank God I'm alive

You're just too good to be true

Can't take my eyes off of you

Pardon the way that I stare

There's nothin' else to compare

The sight of you leaves me weak

There are no words left to speak

But if you feel like I feel

Please let me know that it's real

You're just too good to be true

Can't take my eyes off of you

🎶🎶🎶

I love you, baby

And if it's quite alright

I need you, baby

To warm the lonely night

I love you, baby

Trust in me when I say

Oh, pretty baby

Don't bring me down, I pray

Oh, pretty baby

Now that I've found you, stay

And let me love you, baby

Let me love you

🎶🎶🎶

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