#have some splintered away immediately after ascending? we know they can travel through the ascendant plane

[thefirstknife]

One more thing. In the cutscene, when Eris starts chanting and "invokes the Worm gods," we hear her say three words:

"Akka... Xita... Sel..."

Obviously Akka and Xita are Worm gods. New Worm god just dropped??? We've never before heard the name "Sel." The only pattern I'm seeing in these being invoked is that Akka and Xita are dead. So maybe Sel is another, some forgotten Worm god that's died a long time ago. Or maybe it's just a word in the incantation, but that's a strange placement for it here with two other Worms.

#destiny 2 #destiny 2 spoilers #season of the witch #season of the witch spoilers #eris #hive worm #i've always wondered about there only being 5. feels somewhat risky for a species in a way #then we learned of xita and that was pog. worm mother..... #and then last season... ahsa the proto-worm. the worm gods were something else before they were worm gods. wild #this strengthens the idea that there's many more of them but that they weren't equally relevant in the grand scheme of things to the hive #have some splintered away immediately after ascending? we know they can travel through the ascendant plane #was there a power struggle? for the tithe? sharing the tithes across many worm gods is risky as well #too many of them and the tithe will dilute #remember that the hive only wrote in the books of sorrow of what they knew and needed #there are details that they were deceived on and that were hidden from them #but how would eris know this then? #possibly intriguing

[nervousalpacahologram]

13 Hours, AKA the O5-Council at their Peak.

One:

Everything the Coalition used was automated. Mechanical reality anchors and suits of armor. Prosthetics, Guns, even their beds were integrated. It all worked so well, so simply Perfect.

 Until Him.

 With a twist of his hand, the guns misfired, Anchors failed, the armor contracted and crushed their occupants. Men and Women and Machines fell, destroyed by the very things they thought kept them safe.

 The Coalition could fall in a day. The Coalition will fall in a day. The Coalition Has fallen in a day.

 O5-1 will see to that.

Two:

She stands above them, a Sword of Scouring Light and a Rod of Iron held aloft over the teeming hordes. Words echo, in every language and none, and the commanders weep as soldiers fall on their swords.

 “For The Messiah!” They cry as their throats are slit by hands that are no longer their own.

 “For The Lord!” They scream as their fingers tear out their eyes in Rapture.

 “For Our God!” They wail as they turn arms on their brethren, no longer themselves.

 Blood pours from her hands and forehead, an endless deluge made from the fallen. Her Smile is as broken as her halo.

 Three:

A scarred hand holds the Caduceus, a scarred body is flanked by guards, a scarred mind turns inward anger outwards.

 It doesn’t matter who’s the one begging at his feet. Maybe it’s Emerson, who burned and burned and burned all those around him. Maybe it’s Director Bocoume, using the innocent as Test Subjects. Maybe it’s the Engineer, turning the vulnerable and the weak to their own ends. Maybe it’s the Hermit, Secrets and Lies turned against his fellow man.

 No matter who, his Caduceus smashes into their skull, caving in bone and flesh into a bloody red crater. The Law’s Left Hand drag them away, Mirror-visors turning the accused’s broken visage back at them.

 “There’s always room for more D-Class” He thinks as their screams fade into nothing.

 Four:

He’s a man, he’s a god, he’s a demon.

 Whatever he is, it’s no matter.

 His Clothes are Red, his Hands are Red, his Smoke is Red.

 His words are like poisoned honey, dripping off his silver tongue as he speaks and persuades and threatens. Golden eyes pierce the opposition, burning deep with fractured light.

 He’s here, he’s there. In one second he’s in China, the next America. Then Britain and Russia and Egypt and Japan and Brazil and all the way down down down.

 His work is never done.

 Five:

He’s Clothed in Black and Gold and the whole world rests under his thumb. Nations kneel at his feet, kissing the Ring of Bloodied Gold.

 His skin is dark, inlaid with gold leaf. His curls are shaved chocolate, almost glittering with shattered gems. The riches of Man flow through his veins, molten Gold and Silver, while he gazes out on the world through Diamond eyes.

 Blackbirds wheel and shriek under golden skies, alighting and perching to whisper all manner of secrets into his ears. He knows the names and births and deaths of those who pass him, all foretold by Blackbirds.

 Everyone knows those damned Blackbirds.

 Six:

He’s a white blur, fighting his way through guards armed to the teeth and weaponized anomalies. It’s a beautiful dance, great jets of dark blood arcing through the moonlit night.

A Gunshot. A Broken Back. A Pulverized Face. A Gunshot. A Knife Sliding Through Flesh. An Explosion. Another. A Broken Spine. A Gunshot. A Gunshot. Another. And Another And Another And Another And Another.

 The Insurgent Priest begs for his life on his knees. His eyes are filled with tears of terror. Six merely cocks his head at the weeping, pulling the trigger to spatter the grey concrete Red.

 Seven:

Walls and Wards and Chains and Shackles make up their domain. A world where everything has it’s place, where everything is Bound once and for all. A world of Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Grey.

 They’re a pair of broken fetters, a pair of tooth-bound hair sticks, a back turned to their loathsome kin. They’re Bound and Free, Weak and Mighty, Broken and Whole.

 Even as the World Burned beneath Crimson Skies, they stood resolute, ready to snare the Rapist King and drag him to the darkest pits of the Earth. Even as The Godkillers stared back at them, having slaughtered so many, they stood unyielding. Against Man and Gods, The Apocalypse and Creation, they were Never Moved, Never Faded, Never Fell.

 In Black and White and Black and White and Black and White and Grey We Believe.

 Eight:

It wasn’t even a Year and he had already fell so far. Several Destroyed sites and so many simply Erased. His soul was shattered that day, breaking into a million cold Splinters. They would reform, but no longer into they shape it once was. His new soul was jagged, cold and patchwork. A Light Died that day, reborn as a vestige of itself.

 He retreated into solitude after that, coming into the Light almost a decade later. He was no longer the man he once was but carried himself with a newfound grace. His head was held high and his hands no longer shook.

 Many of the Foundation’s enemies fell in the next days, chess pieces and dominoes knocked over one by one. An invisible hand struck them all down, until 14 entire GOIs had fallen by his hand in 4 years.

 The Foundation has many hands, and the Eighth is just another one.

 Nine:

How did she Know? Who told her? Where was the Leak?

 Those were all questions the Council asked when a paper was published. A madcap theory of the Anomalous. They could use their vast resources to strike it down, but for some odd reason, it made Sense.

 They found her in her house. The walls were filled with papers and documents and and scientific papers, all strewn with Blood and Ink. She was found, hands bloody with days of writing, surrounded in empty cups of coffee. A grand board hung in front of her, lines of red string connecting the Foundation and the GOC and the Insurgency and and and.

 Four and Seven have to stop her from pouncing on them in delighted, half-insane interest.

 A job was offered almost immediately following an 11-1 vote, with no 9 to abstain.

 Ten:

The Serpent Of Eden. The Keeper Of The Ends Of The World. The Archivist.

 Her Hands and Eyes scour the unnumbered pages, the stories of those who have lived and died in the Dark for the sake of those in the Light.

 Her Blood thrums with the words of the Fallen, of the Forgotten, of those who were here once, but never again. Her Thoughts travel at lightspeed, cataloging and composing the History of Everything into neat little lines.

 She dances in the roots of Yggdrasil, delighting in the leaves and boughs of Light and Life, cutting away the choking vines of Ignorance and Fear, the borrowing insects of Obliviousness and Worry.

 The Serpent whispers and coils around the first of Man, whispering the secrets of the World in their newborn minds.

 Eleven:

They were unknown for so long, a conditional memory in the minds of the Overseers. Until they burst into existence, an antimemetic butterfly bursting free from the chrysalis of anonymity.

 They spiraled into existence, 10, 100, 1000 parallel beings all held inside one form, let out into the world to hold the secrets of the Foundation beneath the ice.

 Liars and Postmen and Bureaucrats, Businessmen and Historians and Dust. They whirled into existence like the horrors of Pandora’s box, men and women and others holding the Foundation on their shoulders.

 They are a God in their own right, the God of the Common Man.

 Twelve.

He is Lost and Found, Forgotten and Unforgettable. The Physician is no longer himself, held between Everything and Nothing.

 He rests in the coils of the Serpent, Anantashesha reborn forever. He is clothed by the Escapee, eyes of Colorless Green and clothes of Halcyon Fire.

 What was once a man who sought out anything he could to forget is a man no longer, ascendant past the fear and horror that drove him to madness. Now he stands above it all, doling out Blissful Oblivion to those who would much rather forget.

 Memory can be a tool, and it is one that he has taken up.

 Thirteen:

Yosef Bin Tamlin

Joey Tamlin

The Meddler

Time

 I’ve been called many names, worn many faces, spoken many different tongues. I’ve lived and died and been a bit of both for as long as I can remember, as long as anyone can remember, as long as You can remember.

 Yes reader, You. You are the catalyst for everything that has begun here. A writer cannot much exist without an Audience, without Attention. And you, dear reader, have provided all the necessary Attention the Writer could ever want.

 You have birthed the monsters described in these entries just as much as they birthed themselves.

                                              Congratulations.

#SCP Foundation #the o5 council #o5-1 #o5-2 #o5-3 #o5-4 #o5-5 #o5-6 #o5-7 #o5-8 #o5-9 #o5-10 #o5-11 #o5-12 #o5-13 #religion / #blood /

[victoria-hyde]

Death By...

Skulduggery pressed his hat regretfully into her shaking hands. He couldn't meet her eyes. See how absolutely broken she was. See the tears streaming down her face. It was all his fault. If only they didn't find out he was Lord Vile.

"Something to remember the good times by." He whispered; his voice laced with sadness. He turned his back to her racking sobs and walked away. Time seemed to slow down as his regrets washed over him. The smiles of his friends echoing in his memory, now only a distant ghost that had lost all meaning. He wished his family happiness in whatever heaven they were in and regretted that they would be left forever, sadly waiting for him to arrive, when he never would.

"Stop!" Valkyrie cried out, her voice cracking. "You don't have to do this! You don't have to always be the hero!" She had collapsed to the floor now, not even trying to conceal her sobs. "I-I can't d-do this without you!" Guilt washed over him. He had no choice.

"I'm no hero. All I've ever done is hurt the people I love. I'm going to be killed anyway, and rightfully so. The Dead Men are racing after me as we speak. I might as well put my demise to use. Goodbye Valkyrie." He replied, without turning around. He continued walking and stepped into the accelerator. He slowly turned around.

"Until the end..." Valkyrie desperately tried. He paused and looked down at her.

"Until the end..." He replied. He saw the hope flare inside her once again, making him feel guilty. Guilty for all the things he'd done. Guilty for making her think he was going to come back. Guilty for not being able to cry.

"But now is the end. Forget me... It will make life easier." He said, looking at the floor. He heard a hum, saw a bright flash and then, nothing...

She watched in horror as he disintegrated, her vision blurry from tears. How could she not convince him to stay? How could she have meant so little, as to not be able to save him? She collapsed on the floor sobbing. How was a world without Skulduggery one worth living in? The door burst open and the Dead Men ran in. Furious.

"Where is he?!" Ghastly raged. "Where is the traitorous scum?!" The Dead Men behind Ghastly, were displaying similar hatred towards their ex-friend. Valkyrie shakily rose a hand that pointed at the pile of dust. The Dead Men smiled and stalked upstairs, whooping with joy, over the moon that their friend was dead. It brought a certain kind coldness into Valkyrie, to see them act that way. Only Ghastly and Valkyrie stayed. Valkyrie wracked with sobs and Ghastly’s face flickering with mixed emotions. Finally, Ghastly’s face turned stony.

"Good riddance." He declared, his voice devoid of any emotion. He turned and went upstairs to join his real friends. As far as the world was concerned, this was a time for celebration. Everyone would remember this day as the day Lord Vile died. Valkyrie disagreed. He died a hero and would always be a hero to her even though everyone else would only ever see Lord Vile. She clutched his hat, the last part of him she had left.

"Until the end..."

And that was the last time anyone saw Skulduggery Pleasant. But it was not the last time anyone saw Lord Vile.

Free from chains of Skulduggery's mind, he rose from the bone dust and melted into the shadows. He was going to have some fun. He moved swiftly through the shadows, past the broken girl and- Wait a moment. She was loved. She was cared about. She would be incredibly easy to kill. He lazily lifted a finger and the shadows speared her heart, taking it backwards with them. Her crying halted abruptly, and she fell forward onto her face. Lord Vile reached out and took the slimy heart into his hand and strolled over to the remains of his old prison. He bent down, holding the heart over the top of the bone dust and squeezed, squeezed until the heart burst and its gooey chunks rained down on top. Lord Vile watched the crimson stain spread through the dust in patches. Now they could be together forever. He stood up and turned around menacingly, only to see a horrified Ghastly Bespoke, watching him with his mouth open and tears streaming down his cheeks.

Ghastly had come down from the party to check on Valkyrie. When he got downstairs, he saw Lord Vile explode her heart over the remains of Skulduggery. He saw Valkyries motionless body, determined to make a sea of blood. They had got it wrong. Skulduggery wasn't Lord Vile. He had tried to kill his best friend. They had all tried to kill him and celebrated when he died. Ghastly had never felt so impure in his whole life. Tears cascaded down his hideous face, following the routes that were his scars. He felt as hideous on the inside as he was on the outside. Skulduggery had died thinking no one cared for him. No one except Valkyrie. Valkyrie, who was lying dead on the floor, her heart in pieces. Ghastly could only watch as Lord Vile turned around, having seemed to enjoy what he just did and saw him. Lord Vile stalked forwards as Ghastly stood their shattered and stopped right in front of Ghastly. Red hot anger flooded his veins. Anger for his friends. Anger at himself. Anger at this...this thing! But before he could do anything Vile rose one dark, metal finger to Ghastly’s lips and whispered "Shhh..."

Suddenly Lord Vile was gone. Ghastly’s anger was still there but it was temporarily overridden with confusion. Where had he gone? In a flash of panic, he realised, Vile could have shadow-travelled upstairs to murder more of his friends! He tried to turn around and run up the stairs to warn them, but nothing happened. His body then slowly turned around of its own accord and ascended the stairs. Ghastly had no control. That was when Ghastly realised where Lord Vile had gone. Inside of him. He was possessed by the man that had slaughtered his mother and Valkyrie and countless others, but he could still see everything that was happening. He was Lord Vile. Ghastly’s body reached the top of the stairs and lent against the door frame with an evil grin, gazing out at the party. Ghastly felt a pang of guilt upon seeing the celebration but the guilt was quickly replaced with terror when he heard Vile think his next words.

"Let's have some fun."

"No!" Ghastly argued back, his voice echoing in his own skull, "Stay away from my friends, you monster!" Ghastly had to stop Lord Vile from joining the party, and yet through his panic, he could still hear Vile's amusement ringing out clear in his, no, Ghastly's head. Ghastly could almost feel the smirk punch him in the face, he knew he was powerless, but he had to somehow convince Vile to go away... Maybe Vile was hungry after all those years as a skeleton? No. That sounded even stupider in thought than it would out loud.

"Why, may I ask, can't I enter the celebration? They're my friends too. You seem to have forgotten that. Sure, I'm not a very good friend but that doesn't change the fact that we have some deranged form of friendship. I also know everything about you all, that must count for something on the friend-O-meter. I mean, it's certainly useful on the I'm-going-to-kill-you-O-meter. Can't you just feel the love every time we try to brutally murder each other?" Ghastly remained silent. The resemblance to Skulduggery was just painful. That brought on a whole new torrent of guilt and unwanted memories. If Ghastly was physically able to cry, he would currently be classified as a waterfall, but he was unable to mourn for his best friend because a certain someone had usurped power over his tear ducts. This distressing fact only fuelled Ghastly's rage, but his emotions didn't seem to get the message because his anger doused and wallowed as depression.

Lord Vile seemed to take his silence as a no. "No? Good, because there is none and if you felt some form of friendship while I murdered your mother then you seriously need to see a psychiatrist. Well, I'll be off now." And with that absurd speech ringing in Ghastly’s head, Lord Vile, true to his word for once, began stepping forward. Ghastly was only left a moment to lament on the fact that Vile was creepily happy and lot more talkative of late. That was to be expected now Skulduggery was dead. First Larrikin, then Hopeless, Shudder died last week, then Skulduggery and Valkyrie and now what remained of his friends were about to be killed at his own hand. It was all too much.

"Don't! Your only going to murder them! That's all you ever do! Murder! Now step away before I... Before I-" Ghastly raged.

"Chill. I'm not going to go in and steal their life forces. OK?" Interrupted a very relaxed sounding Vile.

"Somehow, I can't bring myself to believe you." Ghastly retorted, trying and failing to keep his voice from splintering with unrivalled emotions. He needed to be strong. For Skulduggery.

"Pssssh," Thought back Vile," I'm not going to kill them all immediately. I'm going to make them think I'm you first, so I can savour their look of utter betrayal when I stab them in the back." Ghastly curled up in the darkest corner of his mind while Lord Vile proceeded forward unchallenged.

 Lord Vile smirked. His final comment had shut that emotional twit up. He could finally drop the cheery, talkative act. He was still fabulous at impersonating Skulduggery from those few years he had to pretend to be Skulduggery until he found a decent blacksmith. He put his best sad face on and dragged Ghastly’s body over to where Dexter was sitting, making sure he put just the right amount of slouch and feet-dragging in for it to look believable but not slapstick. He plodded down on a stool and quickly made sure his face was suitably tear stained, before he began pathetically sobbing and he pressed Ghastly’s hideous face into Dexter’s shoulder. Dexter stopped laughing at Erskine from a distance and looked down at Ghastly concerned. Dexter gently pulled Ghastly’s face up from his shoulder and simply looked at him worriedly.

"What's wrong?" Dexter questioned, "This isn't about Skulduggery is it?" Questioned Dexter. Lord Vile shook Ghastly’s head and pretended to stifle his sobs long enough to speak.

"It's...It's Valkyrie-" Stuttered Vile and pretended to burst into tears again. Dexter now looked genuinely anxious.

"What? What about Valkyrie?" Dexter probed, not bothering to smother his panic.

"She...She's...d-dead-" Blurted out Vile. Dexter looked plain afraid now. Excellent. Dexter went to stand up but Vile pushed down his shoulder, cutting off his sobs and drying his face using water manipulation.

"Not so fast." Vile said his voice now even and cold but not as cold as his heart. Vile watched in delight as he saw the confusion leap onto his face and become friends with all the other feelings fighting for room on his face. "You’re not going anywhere. Ever."

"But Ghas-" Dexter’s plea was cut short at the same time as his life. Vile smirked. Dexter really should have listened to Ghastly’s desperate pleas to run away from him.

"Oh wait. He can't hear you. Whoops." Thought Vile back to an extremely distressed Ghastly. There were enough people and noise that nobody saw Dexter’s lifeless body hit the ground. Nobody cared.

"I never really liked you anyway." Lord Vile said to the shell of man Dexter used to be before putting his depressed facade back up and slouching back into the crowd. Dexter died thinking Ghastly had betrayed them all. That Ghastly killed Valkyrie. Perfect. As Ghastly’s body neared Ravel and Tanith he silently swore that Dexter would have the most peaceful death out of everyone in the room.

"One by one they will all fall." Thought Vile, Ghastly’s pathetic little yelps of distress music to his ears in much the same fashion as his family’s was to Serpine’s and Ghastly’s mothers was to his.

Ravel turned his head slowly around upon hearing Ghastly’s footsteps and smiled. Ghastly would be excellent company, all Tanith wanted to talk about was leather and steak. Ravel tilted his head in thought, a trait he had picked up from Skul- Lord Vile. So, she essentially just wanted to talk about dead cows. Weird. Worry crept in when he saw Ghastly looking so... so panicked and depressed. Like he had just done something unspeakable. Ghastly stumbled over closer and Ravel rushed forward and caught Ghastly just before he fell over. Ravel could feel the damp from Ghastly’s tears spreading like a bloodstain on his crisp white shirt. Something has seriously wrong if Ghastly would dare dirty this shirt.

Ghastly collapsed forward onto Ravel shuddering, crying, not bothering to hold himself up. "Ghastly! What happened?!" Ravel yelled panicked. He had not seen Ghastly like this since, well, Hopeless or Skulduggery died. He was Skulduggery then. A good and noble man who had lost everything. As far as Ravel was concerned their friend died at the same time as his family and the husk that came back was Lord Vile.

Ghastly tiredly raised his head, still chocking on his sobs he was barely holding back. His eyes glinted with what Ravel assumed was tears but look suspiciously like malice. Later Ravel learnt he should never assume anything.

"I killed Dexter." Ravel very slowly released his hold on Ghastly and looked at him very seriously. Ghastly had stopped crying. Now, he seemed perfectly fine. He remembered seeing Ghastly talking to Dexter at the bar. Ravel quickly glanced over too where they were chatting and noticed Dexter wasn't there. He could have just gone to the bathroom. His eyes glanced down and saw something he would never forget. The body of Dexter Vex. Ravel backed away from Ghastly his hands up. This was the first in a long time he was genuinely afraid.

"What? What are you talking about?" Questioned Erskine, his voice beginning to quiver. He didn't even want to know what Tanith looked like now, Ghastly’s evil smirk was enough to overwhelm him. He didn't think he wanted to know the answer.

"Well, I went over, and my new friend killed him. At the time my friend was an enemy and I desperately tried to stop them killing Dexter. But when Dexter was killed by the thing possessing my body, something in me snapped. I realised how much fun watching things burn and squirm and curl up and die is. I'm me right now but as soon as I get bored of you, I'm going to let you meet my little friend." Ghastly calmly explained, delivering the death threat to one of his oldest friends in the same tone you would use to invite them to drink coffee. Ghastly had changed, Ravel knew that much, but who was responsible for this was still a mystery. When he got his hands on that person, they would pay for turning Ghastly into some demented version of Serpine. Ravel had to know who this person was.

"Who's your friend?" Ravel spat in disgust.

"We are the same person."

"Who are you then? I know Ghastly Bespoke, but I have no clue as to who you are. I only know you're a monster."

"I am Lord Vile." He felt himself go cold. Ravel backed up all the way now until he was next to Tanith.

"No..." Whispered Ravel. Wait... why wasn't Tanith moving? He turned and saw her lifeless body slumped on the chair next to him. Her head missing.

"I got bored of her." Simply replied the man that used to be Ghastly.

Ravel reached for his gun, but something cold and sharp thudded into his back and he took a step forward, his gun dropping from his suddenly numb fingers. Ravel fell to one knee. He reached behind his back, clumsy fingers searching for Tanith's sword. He assumed that must have been what he impaled himself on. Instead, he found a knife. It was pulled free before he could grip it, and he toppled, turning over to land on his back. Ghastly was striding towards him now and Ravel noticed a shadow knife retract back to his hand. He could only watch as Ghastly stopped in front of him.

"I'm sorry my friend." Ghastly Bespoke said, bending over him. Ravel closed his hand over Ghastly's wrists, tried to keep the blade away- "No," he whispered, "no, don't" - but his strength was gone and Ghastly easily disentangled himself and pushed the knife into his throat. In that moment, Ravel became aware of a great many things. He became aware of how cold he suddenly was, and how hot his blood felt, splashing onto his skin. He became aware of Tanith Low's head lying on the floor, turned away from him. He became aware of how many regrets he'd stored up over the years, and despite them all and despite his age, he still wasn't ready to die. He looked up into Ghastly's eyes. Those eyes that used to be the symbol for kindness and understanding, that were now dark and malevolent. He may have been dying but Ghastly Bespoke was already dead and this man had taken his place.

Ghastly became aware of Ravel's eyes, brimming with tears, those eyes of his that had many a lady swooning over him through the centuries. Those golden eyes. He saw Ravel's eyes go glassy then dull and knew the job was done. His knife vanished and he straightened up. That had been fun but now Ghastly was bored. Bored with Ravel, bored with this room, bored with the world.

Lord Vile was oddly quiet in the back of Ghastly's head but he could still feel the disbelief but smug pleasure echo through Lord Vile’s thoughts. Killing Ravel and Tanith, that had been all Ghastly. Lord Vile had let him surface for a bit to torment him further but Ghastly knew he hadn't been expecting him to do that. He smirked to himself.

"We make a good team, you and I." Ghastly thought to Vile.

"Definitely." Vile replied.

"Now Vile, I don't know about you, but I'm bored with these people so I'm going to ask if I can use your armour to kill everyone. They are staring at us very rudely."

"On one condition."

"Which is?"

"You leave half the world to me."

"Deal." Ghastly turned around to all the shocked faces watching him. He saw Saracen Rue push his way to the front of the crowd.

"How dare you murder them!? What is wrong with you?!" Screamed Saracen.

Ghastly smirked. "I'm ever so slightly possessed at the moment. I was also bored. I don't go by Ghastly anymore. I'm going by the name of my little friend that has possessed me," He bent over and let out a mad cackle, "I'll let you guess what that name is." Darkness leaked from Ghastly's blood stained shirt and covered him completely. The shadows danced at his feet eager to kill everyone for him. To please their master.

The crowd took a step back and Saracen could be heard chanting, "No, no, no, no, no, no...". Ghastly smiled to himself and expanded his awareness to the edges of the room, before drawing it back to his body, taking everyone’s life with it.

"You're right Vile, this is fun!" Thought Ghastly joyfully. Everybody flopped to the floor, no more than sacks of meat. Ghastly rose into the air, done with this room and flew off to destroy the world.

#major character death #Lord Vile #Ghastly Bespoke #Dead Men #Valkyrie Cain #murder #fanfiction #Victoria writes

[heoneyology]

Desire: Ch.1

A/N: And here I present to you the first chapter of our leader’s story! I don’t have much to say just yet, except that I’m sorry again if it starts off slow and that it’s only his POV atm.

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader

Genre: action, angst, romance, outlaw!au

Word Count: 1438

Summary: Years ago, Kim Hongjoong took something important from you. Years of patience with a heavy grudge on your heart, you carefully construct a plan that you’ve already set into motion. With a series of events, you plan to exact your revenge on him and return the painful favor from years ago. What you don’t plan for, however, is your heart’s desire ultimately waging a war against you as he intricately weaves himself back into your life—and you find yourself matched up against a rival who is already ten steps ahead.

The sun has fallen lower in the sky, close enough that it hovers over the horizon, warning the oncoming end of another day. From beneath the brim of a black hat, light eyes scan the skyline with a dark expression. It’s not quite sunset yet—there’s still enough daylight left to keep moving. It’s a grim reminder, however, of how long they’ve been away and how little they’ve accomplished. 

When the night comes, Hongjoong will be left to wager a war against his own thoughts. To contemplate, to reevaluate. With each passing day he was left to his thoughts, the more irritable he became. “Hyung—” From behind him, Yunho’s voice is uncertain. Hongjoong can tell he’s not sure whether to question his leader’s actions or, as a friend, inform him of how ridiculous he was being. Luckily for all of them, Hongjoong was acutely aware of the latter, already. He lets out a long sigh, glancing over his shoulder at his members. “It’s fine. Let’s set up here for the night.” But as Hongjoong speaks to no one, he happens to make eye contact with Yunho. There’s a shrewd realization in his companions eyes—they’ll be setting up, but he himself won’t be staying long. As he had a few nights before when he’d felt so close to it all, he’d disappeared for the rest of the daylight hours, only returning back to his men at the first mark of dusk. Yunho doesn’t say anything though, not that he needs to. The other two will either figure it out on their own, or simply assume. “Right here?” San pipes up, his voice a mix of incredulous and whiny. “It’s a vantage point,” Yunho points out knowingly. As both a gunman and scout, he would know best. From the mesa they were on, they had a clear view of intruders below and a vast expanse of desert at their backs they’d become familiar with. As he speaks, Yunho makes no haste in dismounting from his horse, having already accepted their resting place for the night. “There’s absolutely no cover though, at all,” San whines. “Vantage point or not!” “Not like we haven’t slept under the endless stars before,” Mingi’s deep voice is added to the conversation. He’d been unusually quiet for the entire time, but when Hongjoong glances over, he sees that the younger is also dismounting his horse. Feeling his leader’s gaze on him, Mingi lifts his eyes to meet Hongjoong’s. He pauses in untying his small pack from his saddle. “Boss?” “I’m going to keep at it a bit longer,” Hongjoong declares, directing his horse to turn fully around so he can face them. “I’ll see if I can bring back some food, as well.” Before anyone can say anything, or dare change his mind, Hongjoong clicks his tongue and tightens his legs around his horse’s torso. Without a moment’s hesitation, his steed is at a full gallop. The small group is left behind in a literal cloud of dust, and Hongjoong can hear Mingi’s deep outcry of “Boss!” from over his shoulder. A part of him feels guilty for dragging the three of them along. This wasn’t their mess to be in, though he knew each one of them would disagree. It was his mess, and it was his to clean up. Not only that, but he felt as though he were stringing them along on a wild goose chase. They’d been out here for days now and had been riding in circles. Tugging the reins in his hands, Hongjoong clicked his tongue and let out a small shush as his horse pulled up short before stopping, turning in a circle as he did so. Hongjoong’s eyes carefully studied the horizon around him. Think. Just think. He knew this area like the back of his hand. Or rather, he should, so why was he having so much trouble now? Because it had been years since he’d been here? He had once been finely attuned to this desert and the land—the ponderosa forests not far off to the south, the entirety of the plateau and the grand Colorado that snaked through the lands. “The river…” The statement falls from his lips softly, a distant memory weighing heavily on the words that fall away with the gentle southwestern winds. Hongjoong’s gaze trails off towards the Colorado River, it’s not far off. They’d been using the river and the fall of the canyons it flowed through as a guide for the days they’d been traveling. He’d practically been a kid at the time that he’d left, it was no wonder the memories were difficult to grasp at within the depths of his mind. So many things had happened since then. But there was a calling here, Home. He’d felt like an idiot for days on end because he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Yet now he felt that much more stupid for forgetting such an obvious thing, when he should know the lands he once roamed. “Come on,” Hongjoong urges, pushing his horse forward at full speed. I need to make it back by sundown, he reminds himself. The thought is drowned out by the thunderous roar of his steed’s hooves below. He knows he’s pushed his poor mount more than the others have in these last few days, stubbornly insisting on putting in more time searching for what he was looking for and immediately repeating the process the next morning. But now there was an eagerness—he was so close. Looming overhead was also an incessant, dark worry. She’s going to be there… Hongjoong forced the unease down. That was, after all—the entire point. Her. It took almost an hour, plus some, of riding and searching before he laid eyes on what he was looking for. There, with the Colorado River off in the distance and vermilion and sandstone cliffs set as the backdrop, the desert still as expansive as ever as it melded effortlessly with the blue sky—memories flooded back to him. Hongjoong took a moment to take in the land before him. The ranchhouse still stood, though it was clearly weathered and old. Despite some patchwork needed on the roof and sides of the house itself, and the clearly worn wood splintering as it aged, the place looked good for its age. Much better than a few of the out-buildings that stood further off on the ranch. Or, rather, what was left standing of them—most were caved in and mere piles of firewood at that point. “Took long enough,” Hongjoong muttered to himself, dismounting from his horse. Taking lead of the reins, he walked across the arid land carefully, eyes scanning for any sign of life. But it looked abandoned, just as he figured it would. Something felt off though. For how far out this place had been, surely the land and the few buildings that still stood on it shouldn’t even be standing? Monsoon season was harsh here, summers harsher. Someone was definitely taking care of this place. Rather, they were taking care of it enough to keep it standing in case they needed to return. Hongjoong carefully tied his horse’s reins to what was left of an old fence, before surveying the property once more. If it’s not now, it’s never, he thinks to himself, stepping over the remnants of broken fence and into what was once the main yard. He crosses the expanse of the dry land, treading lightly and keeping his footsteps light, ascending two steps onto the porch. The old wood creaks beneath his feet, and he glances downward with a frown. Each step forward from there is the old wood complaining beneath his feet, attempts at walking lightly failed, the porch having not been walked on in who knows how many years now. Hongjoong lifts a hand to his waist, resting his fingers around the grip of the revolver at his hip. With his free hand, he pushed the door in front of him open and steps over the threshold. First wrong move, and he knows it. Despite this being his home, he knows better than to be this blind and stupid. He’s the one constantly instilling the lesson of always being alert into the others, practically beating it through their skulls. Yet, here he was—the one caught. The cool metal of a gun’s muzzle pressing to his left temple stops him right at the threshold of his old home. “Don’t. Move.” Hongjoong knows the voice all too well. But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t listen to the warning. And, so, he freezes in his tracks, muscles tensed at the threat.

#ateez fanfic #ateez fanfics #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong fanfic #kim hongjoong #ateez hongjoong #ateez outlaw #m.writes #m.dsr

[thedistantstorm]

Phoenix Protocol 31

Zavala x Awoken Female Warlock | Mid/Post Forsaken | Slowburn | Gratuitous Descriptions of Light | Self-Confidence/Self-Worth Issues | Redemption

When the Traveler’s Light was returned to the Guardians after the defeat of the Cabal, it did not manifest itself the same in everyone. Miyu, an Awoken Warlock, finds herself struggling with her abilities, her Light feeling different and not her own. With her Vanguard preoccupied with grief and all eyes turned to the Reef, she finds herself turning to an unlikely source in an attempt to rediscover her connection to the Light and define what it means for her as a Dawnblade.

Previously

-/

“A Fireteam has gone dark in the Archology,” Ophiuchus calls, phasing through the door of the Commander’s office.

Zavala looks up. “How long ago?”

“Sloane says it’s been about three hours. The second team she sent barely made it out of the entrance. The Hive sealed the doors behind the first group. She believes it was a trap.”

“What did Ikora say?”

The Ghost spins the back half of his shell. “We put out the alert for any available Guardians to assist. There aren’t that many out there. The Hunters are hard to reach, and the only fireteams docked in Titan’s orbit are participating in a Gambit match.

Zavala's reply is furious. “Then call them out of it.”

Ikora appears in the doorway. “I did. They’re not answering me.”

“The Drifter?”

“Not answering, either.”

“How long do one of these matches take?”

His fellow Vanguard shakes her head, crossing her arms. “It’s not one of his regular matches. It’s that… new game. Prime.” She considers a moment. “They’re longer. Regular matches can take several hours. They could be at it all day.”

The Commander sighs. “How would you like to handle this?” He rises and heads for the doorway, Addy appearing over his left shoulder, while Ophiuchus hangs over Ikora’s right.

“I’ve put out an alert to any available Fireteams and Guardians in the region. Sloane is monitoring comms. Anyone we can get to help, we’ll send her way.”

“And the Drifter?”

She bites her lip, her frown pulling her lips to the left a little. “Well, if he doesn’t answer, we will have to speak with him.”

“I agree.”

“I don’t want Sloane involved.”

Ikora nods. Her voice is firm. “No. If he’s to stay here, he has to understand that the rules are not optional.” She turns her head and meets his eyes. “It has to come from us.”

He nods grimly. They enter the Courtyard, shoulder to shoulder, passing Lord Shaxx on their way to command. The Crucible handler turns, watching as they continue on together. There’s something different about them. From their posture, to the way they conduct themselves, it’s clear that something has changed since their little tift the other night.

“I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you the first crack at him,” Zavala quips.

“How chivalrous of you.”

He chuckles. “I haven’t forgotten how terrifying you are to cross, Ikora Rey.”

Shaxx turns and watches until they’re out of earshot. What are they… What is- “What in the bloody hell is going on here?” He bellows. Some nearby pigeons scatter, and a Warlock and Titan flinch, while their Hunter runs away.

-/

She comes to with fire around her. Tamashii is screaming so loud it sounds like his speaker is shorting out. “Guardian! Miyu! WAKE. UP!”

He’s beneath her. Why is he beneath her? She doesn’t remember when or how it’s happened. “Tama-” She coughs, and feels an acute pain that lances across her back.

“I’m here,” He sounds relieved. “You have to get up. I can’t heal you here.”

Her arms shake when she tries to get up. “My helmet-”

“Gone. The Knight managed to crush your revolver, too. I’m sorry.”

“No,” She groans, rising unsteadily to her feet. “S’ok.” She takes a step forward, up the step and staggers.

Ghost hovers at her shoulder. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and the Miasma poisoned you. If you see anything strange, I need you to tell me right away. You were hearing voices. I think it was the Knight casting a spell, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

She nods and leans heavy on the wall to keep upright. “Tamashii?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. And, I’m sorry.”

He bobs. “It’s okay. The Miasma got through the helmet’s filter. I’m just glad you snapped out of it in time. It was... I was worried.”

“That Knight should be worried,” She growls, breathing heavy. She feels the uncomfortable slick on her back, and realizes that’s what Tamashii cannot heal.

“Miyu, he’s dead. Don’t you remember? You burned everything.”

“I did?”

He bobs in a kind of nod.“You did.”

She takes another step. “I thought he got me,” She murmurs, “‘S trying to get to you and-”

“Easy,” He says, when she begins coughing. She holds out her glove. Despite the nearly grayscale tint everything in the Ascendant Realm is covered with, the red of her blood is a stark contrast from the black poison she expels with it.

“Shit,” She curses.

Tamashii bumps her cheek. “Focus on getting out. We’ve got a ways to go.”

“If the Thrall come? There has to be more,” She grits out but keeps moving, following his instructions. She’s slouched forward, and he looks over her shoulder to the weeping wound on her back. This is bad, Tamashii knows. This is very bad. The Knight did technically get her; She just stopped him before he could finish the job.

“I haven’t seen one since they came after me.”

“So,” She sags almost bonelessly against a wall, and he flutters around her, tipping his cones to suggest that she can’t stop moving. “What it sounds like-”

“Move, Miyu. Move.”

She pushes forward, and he tries to ignore the blackened, bloody smear she leaves on the gray-marbled walls. There’s miasma in her wound, too. “We’re playing into their hands, aren’t we?”

“One Guardian is easier to kill than three.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not just any Guardian,” Tamashii says, making sure he’s in her face where she can see him, his tone terribly endearing, “You’re my Guardian.”

She hums and reaches for him, but he meets her half way. She staggers on after that, around a corner through a doorway, though her legs tremble and shake. “Tama no-”

“I know. Keep going.” She sighs and he chitters, nervously. “You’re almost there,” He tells her again. If she stops, she’s as good as dead. “Don’t give up, Miyu. Ganbari nasai.” Hang in there, he prays silently. Just a little longer.

-/

Lilith tells them to run. To stay away from the Knights with their dark blades, even if it means they have to go further in. She tries to kill the first one, but a Wizard joins him not long after, and she's forced to retreat as well.

There are more than one with these great weapons. Her mechanical heart sinks into her bionic gut. They don't attempt to fight them at range, in fact, she realizes they're actually trying not to harm them much at all. She voices her concerns in a fevered whisper to her team, when they’ve managed to build up enough distance between themselves and an immediate threat.

"Maybe they're a splinter group," Their Titan dares to hope.

The Hunter, trembling, grips her knife tightly. "No," She says, sounding breathless. "They're corralling us. They want something from us."

"Our Light," Lilith thinks aloud. "That's want they're not really trying to kill us. They want to siphon our Light!"

"Sloane mentioned that that's what they do," The Titan chirps. "So what do we do?"

"Sloane?!" The Fireteam comms flare up, and a Wizard screams from afar. "Sloane?"

The Hunter shakes her head at Lilith's frantic calls. "She can't hear us. They're jamming the signal."

“Well,” The Titan begins, willing himself to be calm, “Now what?”

Lilith puts a hand to her mouth, stroking the chin of her helm. “We have to keep those Knights - more specifically their swords - away from us. But we also have to take them out.” She looks at the Hunter. “I don’t suppose you know any of that invisibility nonsense your kind uses?”

She shakes her head. “Gunslinger.”

“I’m a Striker,” The Titan offers. “As long as I time their swings, I should be able to hopefully get them with my Arc.”

The Warlock sighs. “You do know those blades are a one-hit kill, right?”

“What?”

Lilith inhales to speak and is beaten to the draw by their Hunter. “Those Hive swords are… dangerous. They break through your armor, you die. Rips the Light right out of you.”

“I thought those were left on Luna,” He muses, subdued.

“No,” Both of the women reply immediately. “Obviously not.”

#destiny fanfiction #zavala x oc #commander zavala #ikora rey #oc: miyu #oc: lilith #miyu the sweet bean warlock #destiny stories #destiny fanfic #destiny 2

[oceanmastertrash]

the tides know our names- 13/?

Summary:   After losing the throne to his brother Orm is working with Arthur to try to help Atlantis move forward. A few months after this Elara, part of an ancient order of prescient Atlanteans known as Tidewatchers, has a vision of Orm’s death. Predicting and reading the future through the tides of fate has never been easy but Elara is in for the challenge of a lifetime working with her former king to save his life.

Part: 13/?

Word Count: 4,095

Warnings: none for this chapter

Read on Ao3 / start from the beginning

author’s note: I haven’t been good at updating the chapters on here so I’m playing catch up.

Elara looked to Orm, still surprised at how everything was turning out, he looked to her and saw some question in her eyes and nodded in reassurance and then they were beneath the waves, surging against the tides into the gulf beyond.

--

Compared to the longer journey to their safe house, the jaunt across the gulf of Mexico was not an extensive one. That being said, wary of any Atlantean surveillance and surface border disputes, their trek was still a meandering one. They mostly traveled in the deepest parts as it was always safer to stick to the ocean floor when surface dwellers were involved.

However, this journey felt a touch more pleasant owing to the level of familiarity they had developed with each other. They had a rhythm together that was more perceptible to Elara in the ocean. Then again, connections were easier to feel down where the literal tides flowed around them. Part of the challenge that motivated tidewatchers to spend time on the surface was learning to feel those tides up above so as to strengthen their awareness down below.

Elara knew it was difficult for Orm to be back under the waves but still unable to return home. She flattered herself to think that it was easier now that she was giving him something to do other than hide but she still couldn't be sure. He wasn’t as stiff and silent as he’d been on their first swim was all she could say definitively.

She was happy to let him pick course changes, as all that really mattered was that their journey was circuitous and it was more so with two different people picking the path.

She wanted to just enjoy being in the ocean with Orm but something just kept niggling at her. An off feeling in her stomach but with everything that was happening she couldn’t be sure if it was emanating from her own worry or the tides.

Something felt wrong and the feeling only grew stronger and more distracting. Elara turned most of her focus into discerning the tangled thread. She didn’t realize how distracted she was by it until Orm caught her by the arm before she could swim into a boulder planted into the ocean floor ahead of them.

He had one hand holding her steady by the wrist while the other hand was at her waist. She looked at him at the contact, feeling like she was startled from a dream.

Seeing the dazed look on her face, he frowned. Having been around her long enough to know what these things tended to mean, he asked, “Did you see something?”

Elara’s brow furrowed in concentration, “I can’t tell. There is definitely something but I can’t see it clearly enough.”

“Is it immediate?” Orm asked and Elara admired that he had skill in taking such things in stride and he’d certainly adapted to asking the right questions.

She felt another tug in her gut, “Yes.”

She then took the opportunity of the pause to close her eyes and really feel out each thread in the web they were caught in. There was a dark presence in the tides, she felt that much, but what did it mean?

She then straightened like she’d been shocked. Opening her eyes, she met Orm’s concerned blue gaze. “Someone is following us.”

She could feel Orm moving into action even as he stood still beside her, “Who is it?”

“A man,” Elara answered, working to keep what glimpses she had close at hand. “He’s wearing a black suit but I don’t recognize him. He doesn’t look Atlantean.”

“Is he from the surface?” Orm asked.

“I think so but he’s wearing a helmet so I can’t see his face.” She saw a storm brewing behind Orm’s eyes so she asked, “Do you know who it might be?”

“I can’t say for sure, but there are any number of mercenaries willing to do the dirty work of both  the land and sea.” He spoke with measured patience but she could still sense the regret behind his words and that he was thinking of his past mistakes with such mercenaries.

Trying to distract him she asked, “What should we do?”

Rather than reply, he answered her question with another question, “Is he close?”

“I can’t tell, I can only see that he is on our trail,” She answered, trying to strategize as well. “I think we should try to shake him. Better to try to lose him now than lead him to Tulum after us. What do you think?”

Orm nodded, “He probably doesn’t know we’re onto him yet so we should try to use that our advantage. We’re going to take some diversionary paths to throw him off.”

Realizing he was making the decisions like he might have when he was king, he looked to her but she was just nodding, trusting Orm to make the right call. She knew he had more experience in these things so it would make no sense for her to try to take charge in this.

“You lead and I’ll continue probing the tides for anything more about him.”

And with that they were off, moving silently through the water, skirting the ocean floor so that Orm could keep an eye on all of the sea above them. Sometimes they’d abruptly change directions without speaking. It was an erratic course and almost senseless but Elara trusted Orm’s judgment in this. The idea of their follower being a surface dweller made Elara incredibly uneasy. Not that she would have been more comfortable with an Atlantean trailing them based on the hostility that she could sense, but it added more danger and menace in her opinion.

An Atlantean’s motives were easier for Elara to decipher but she could see fewer reasons if they were from the surface. Near as she could fathom, either a surface dweller knew that Orm had been king and to blame for the attack or an Atlantean had outsourced their vengeance. She didn’t care for either option but she wasn’t seeing a better reason.

They’d been weaving and backtracking for about half an hour when the tides spoke to Elara again, though perhaps it would be more accurate to say it shouted at her.

“Stop!” Elara suddenly exclaimed. Orm, who’d been swimming slightly ahead of her, paused instantly.

“What is it?” Orm asked.

“I don’t know how but he’s still tracking us. He’s just ahead of us now. He booby trapped the canyon up ahead.”

That familiar look of concentration could be seen again on Orm’s face. “Could we swim above or around it?”

Elara shook her head, “That’s what he’s waiting for.”

“What’s the trap?”

“Near as I can tell it’s motion-triggered explosives.”

Orm clenched his jaw at that. If he’d been anyone else he might have sworn but he was typically very good at maintaining composure under pressure. “We need to find another path.”

“Should we backtrack?” She asked.

“It hasn’t done us much good so far. We need to try another plan. Something he wouldn’t expect.” he said.

Orm then stilled, causing Elara to frown in concern before looking around to see if he’d seen anything to cause a reaction like that, “What is it?”

“Different problem, but same solution as before,” he said almost bitterly. “We have to go to the surface.”

“Why?” Elara was very surprised by this suggestion.

Orm sighed, “As my brother said, it would be the last place anyone would think to look for me.”

She didn’t exactly disagree but was yet unconvinced this was the only option. “We don’t know for sure that they are after you. What if that’s exactly what they want? We have the advantage of water down here if it comes to a fight.”

“Why else would they be following us? I don’t see you having made many enemies.” He said and she couldn’t argue with that point. He went on, “Besides, what are our other options? Explosives in the canyon or capture passing over it? We should take our chances with the unexpected.”

Elara still wasn’t sure that this would be unexpected but she didn’t have a better plan, “Okay, let’s do it your way.”

In their winding and indirect path to Tulum, they’d swum past and around several islands, and they discerned that they were very near one now and they could duck back a very short distance to ascend there. From Elara’s sense of it she’d surmised that there was enough wilderness still on the island that they could get lost and lose their tail without too much human intervention or interaction.

That tug in Elara’s gut didn’t go away but it didn’t get worse either and she didn’t see any flashes like she had of the explosives in the canyon. She reasoned that Orm was likely right and there was less immediate danger in this path than in the others.

Using Elara’s tidewatching they were able to find a deserted spot of beach and jungle to safely make land. For the first time that she could remember since her very first trip to the surface, Elara felt exposed and sluggish on land. This whole situation felt wrong, even surrounded by trees she felt they were too out in the open. But as the tides remained silent, she couldn’t be sure.

It wasn’t until an explosion leveled a stand of trees to their left that Elara was certain. She’d only caught the hint of the possibility of it a second before, just enough time to shove Orm to her right, behind herself and a large tree.

Splinters of bark and charred shreds of leaves flew around them and Elara felt a sharp pain in her side and left arm. She gasped in pain as she fell to the ground beside Orm where he was looking in the direction of the explosion for any sign of their assailant. At her gasp he looked to her briefly, enough time to note the blood beginning to run down her arm and stain her shirt.

He made some sign to examine her further but she quickly diverted him, “Do you see anyone?”

He made a face but quickly launched back into the problem at hand and took in the rubble before them.

“There,” he said pointing to the beach where a man in black stood with a bulky cannon that was clearly adapted from Atlantean tech. Tech that, Orm realized with a grimace, was likely derived from the weapon he had given to the Black Manta.

“We’ve got to move,” Elara said, grunting, “get out of the open.”

Orm knew they would have to strategize and fight back but that would have to wait til they were less vulnerable- Elara, injured as she was, especially. He nodded, and moved to support her on her uninjured side. She threw her arm around Orm’s neck, hobbling and suppressing curses at the large splinter in her side as they began to hurry through the trees. There wasn’t another blast until they’d made it another ten feet. Orm was surprised at the gap in attacks but filed it away for analysis until they were in a more secure location.

The one advantage on their side was the rapid changes in the terrain at the beach where they landed. If not for the presence of boulders and the uneven nature of the jungle floor, they might have been worse off. Elara liked to think that the tides had guided them here for that reason but they didn’t exactly have time for idle speculation. What energy Elara wasn’t using to keep up their pace, despite the pain, she expended on looking for any sign from the tides for a way out of this.

More sporadic explosions followed them until Elara, guided by the tides, directed Orm through a denser cluster of trees. The trees led to an old system of open caves with holes in patches of the roof to let in natural light to guide them through the serpentine paths. It wasn’t until ten minutes without any sign of attack had passed that they finally stopped. Orm deemed this section of cave suitable enough as it would hide them from immediate view from the ground above or the way they’d come.

Each breathing heavy, Orm helped Elara down to a small ledge before kneeling before her to look at her wound. He needed the rest too but Elara was too winded to immediately argue and allowed him to examine without complaining.

While the smaller twigs and debris had been dislodged from her arm in their flight, a few larger chunks of wood stuck out from her side where blood and sweat now soaked her shirt. Orm would never pretend to be a medic but through his time in battle he’d seen and inflicted his fair share of wounds so he at least had a little knowledge of injuries and a small amount for emergency care in the case that he couldn’t see a healer right away. He was careful not to probe too deeply as he tried to assess the damage.

“How’s it look?” Elara said through clenched teeth.

“It’s not too deep so I think we can take out the splinters but I wouldn’t want to unless we had anything to dress the wound to keep you from bleeding out.” He said, trying to stay professional despite how hard his heart was beating to look at it.

“In my pack,” She breathed heavily, trying to reach with her good arm to the bag on her back, “I’ve got some bandages and salve, just in case.”

Despite the situation, Orm couldn’t keep the ghost of a smile off of his lips as he retrieved them. She always seemed to think ahead. Elara could never be called a warrior in the way that he was but he admired the way she bore his clumsy ministrations with little fuss. She was practical and cognizant of the possibility of giving away their location if she made too loud a noise. Orm respected her for that.

Getting the splinters out was extremely painful and when he extracted the first piece she reached her hand out to hold his shoulder without a word, instead sucking in breath as she tried not to shout. Orm almost stopped at that but she gave him a squeeze as if to ask him to keep going, so he did.

Despite how tight she gripped, Orm’s hands were steady and swift and he didn’t comment. Instead he focused on discarding the bloody bark, before he set about trying to clean out the wood with some water from her pack. Once most of the dirt was out of the wound, he handed her the canteen and told her to drink what was left while he applied salve. She took measured, gulps as he bandaged it as best he could.

Elara would never have believed this was actually happening if it weren’t for all the pain. She certainly never expected her former king to be dressing any injury of hers and yet, in context it wasn’t odd at all. And she couldn’t decide what was weirder: the situation itself or that the situation didn’t seem odd to her. It was just par for the course at this point. That being said, she was grateful for his help.

His task done, he finally joined her on the ledge, wiping his bloody hands on a spare shirt from his own pack. When he stowed the shirt back in his bag she handed him the last of the water and watched as he drank it. They were silent for a moment as they tried to catch their breaths and take in their new circumstances.

“What are we going to do?” Elara finally spoke, asking what they were both thinking.

It wasn’t easy but Orm said slowly, “I don’t know.”

They sat for another moment before Elara spoke again, “Do you think he’s herding us again? Why else wouldn’t he have shot at us right after the first blast?”

“I’m not sure but I have a theory,” He said carefully. “I don’t think he knows what he’s doing with this technology. It’s based on Atlantean design but it isn’t pure and so it’s less refined than the original. I can’t be sure until we know why they are after us, but I don’t think this mercenary is working alone. Whoever adapted the cannon knew enough about it but that isn't the same man we saw on the beach. He may just be a lackey who clearly wasn’t trained well enough to use it effectively. That’s to our advantage though. He seems to need more time recharging or reaiming and that’s likely why we’re still alive.”

Elara marveled at his deducing skills, he thought quickly on his feet and picked up more than she could have guessed, likely from all his training for battle. She hoped he was right, if their assailant was as inexperienced as Orm believed, they had a shot at outmaneuvering them.

Thinking over what he said, she smirked. “They’re too big for their britches.”

Orm frowned at her in confusion, “What?”

“Nevermind, just a surface expression. Madren used to say when I would try to tackle more than I was able to.” She waved her arm, lacking the energy to explain further only for the motion to send a wave of pain washing over her.

She sobered then, they were in the thick of it and unfortunately the only solution she could think of was one she was loath to consider. Someone needed to say it though.

“I think we need to separate,” She said quietly and yet his head still turned whip-quick to look at her.

“What are you talking about?” he responded with more fervor than she had expected.

As even she didn’t like the idea she’d expected some resistance so was ready with a reply, “As you said earlier, they’re after you. I’m just going to slow you down with my injury.”

“Your injury is a good reason why we should stay together. What would you do if he went after you instead of following me?” He didn’t like to think of that possibility. He sure he knew what he would do if she was wrong.

“I’m not defenseless, Orm,” She insisted, pointing to her boots where the knives they’d used against the Trench were still stowed. “And I’ve got the tides to help too.”

“The tides didn’t stop you from getting hurt,” he pointed out, more bite to his words than she had expected.

She didn’t miss a beat before replying, “It protected you, didn’t it?”

Remembering her throwing him out of the way at the last minute put a pause in his argument. She had thrown him free just in time even though it cost her. He was far from throwing himself to the mercy of those who wished him harm but he wasn’t sure that he was comfortable with his safety coming at cost to Elara. Given all of the security and soldiers who had fought to protect him as king, he realized this was perhaps hypocritical of him. He certainly wouldn’t say out loud but that didn’t stop him from feeling that way though.

“We would be stronger together,” he finally said.

She met his concentrated gaze with a determined one of her own. “Right now we’re sitting ducks together and whether you like it or not, we’re at a disadvantage with me like this.”

“I thought you just said that you could defend yourself with the tides,” he countered.

“Yes, as a defense but it’s not a solution.” She maintained.

“And splitting up on land as an unknown surface dweller with Atlantean tech hunts us down is a solution?”

Rather than respond to that, she turned to face him full on and put the hand of her good arm on his. “I know you don't like this. I don't either; but we have to do something. It's only a matter of time before he finds us. We still have no idea how he's tracking us so he's likely to catch up soon. If we split up we might be able to figure out if he’s doing it through conventional methods or if it’s one of us specifically.“

He was still very much against separating because there were too many unknowns to guarantee any success to her plan but he was a shrewd enough tactician that he could see there were strategic advantages as well.

“I’m not saying I agree but whatever we do, we need to have a plan. We can’t just walk in different directions and hope for the best.” He said gruffly, trying to convince himself he wasn’t affected by the feel of her touch on his arm.

“That would be a terrible plan,” she agreed, pleased that he was at least entertaining the idea. “You’re right, we’d need to think of something besides just running away. We have to find a way to gain the upperhand.”

“And you think we have to split up to find it?” He asked, still unconvinced.

“He had to have seen me get hit and I’ve got to think he wouldn’t expect us to separate after that,” she reasoned.

Orm fixed her with a hard expression, “Because it’s a bad plan.”

”It’s not a bad plan if it keeps us one step ahead of him,” she maintained.

“If it were to work it would be because we’re lucky, not because it’s a good idea.”

Elara sighed, “We’re not going to agree on this are we?”

He held her gaze, a muscle twitching in his neck as he answered, “No, we are not.”

They were getting nowhere and Elara knew it, knew it just like she knew that their attacker grew closer to finding them each moment they argued. She knew Orm had a point and her idea was extremely risky but she felt they needed to take a risk in order to turn this situation around.

Breaking their staring contest, she closed her eyes briefly and took a breath before meeting his stare again, asking in a steady, straightforward tone, “Do you trust me?”

There was a noticeable shift to his features at her question, he hadn’t expected that at all.

She knew she’d hit him with a curveball and so took the pressure off him answering immediately by continuing, “I know it would be dangerous and I can’t tell if this is the right call or not but it feels right. I’ve spent so long trying to hone my intuition as an asset in tidewatching and right now my gut is telling me that this is the right call. I don’t want to see anything happen to you and the longer we debate this the more likely that he’ll find us before we’re ready. I’m not asking you to like the plan, but can you trust me in this?”

Orm looked away from her. Trust was not an easy thing for him these days. In the wake of Mera’s and Vulko’s betrayals he’d found it hard to trust anyone. He believed his mother but after her long absence and assumed death, he wasn’t sure he could fully trust her. And here was Elara asking for that which he had so little of in anything. It had long been his instinct not to trust anyone, to only put his faith in himself and the resilience of Atlantis.

And yet, he’d already trusted her visions. Based on all she’d ever done in regards to him, even their contentious first encounter, she’d been steady and true. Just this week she had risked indignation and disbelief in telling Arthur, who knew little of the tides, of her vision of Orm’s death to protect him.

She’d left behind her home and people to keep him safe by coming up here with him. She would follow his lead when needed but wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and contradict him if she needed to. She had spent this whole week trying to help him and she’d yet to do anything to hurt him. She confused the hell out of him at times but she trusted him and at least minimally, seemed to care for him. He could do this one thing for her. Maybe he could trust just this one time or just this one person.

“I still don’t like this,” He finally sighed, returning her gaze once more. “But I’ll trust you to get us out of this.”

#king orm x oc #orm x oc #orm marius x oc #King Orm #orm marius #tidewatcher fic #the tides know our names #oceanmastertrash