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bitsandbobsofwriting · 3 years

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Soulmate AU Part 4 (final part):

Uther continues to be very OOC and Merlin is presented to the Kingdom; luckily enough, everyone already loves him. The Future starts to come together...

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

The summer passed in much the same way the previous year had; awkwardly polite conversation between Merlin and Uther, Leon panicking at everything, Gwen being exasperated, Morgana and Merlin pissing about, and Arthur watching it all with exponentially growing fondness.

Eventually, it was Yuletide again. Yuletide meant Arthur’s 18th birthday. Arthur’s 18th birthday meant revealing Merlin to the Kingdom; announcing him as The Crown Prince’s Soulmate.

There was an odd mix of feelings surrounding the upcoming event. Both Arthur and Merlin were ecstatic at the idea of not having to hide and sneak around anymore, but Merlin was a foreign peasant boy. The common people would love him, Nobles and Foreign dignitaries? Not so much. Granted, Arthur had a powerfully intimidating presence, when he chose to display it, Morgana could glare anyone into submission, and even Leon was known to be passive aggressively threatening when it concerned Merlin’s safety and respect, but not all could be daunted into compliance. Merlin would surely face discrimination.

That, and the growing spotlight meant that it would become much harder to keep his magic a secret. With Uther’s insistence that Merlin be... part of the family, they’d already had a few close calls.

Thankfully, not much else had changed, or it had changed for the better. Arthur and Merlin still scared everyone else shitless when they popped up to each other, but Morgana’s visions seemed a lot less terrifying now. Leon still had heart palpitations when Merlin and The King were in the same room, but Gwen, Gaius, and Hunith relaxed more; the Physician especially could see the pride glowing in Uther’s eyes, and the awkward fondness he held for Merlin (even if that wouldn't protect him if Uther discovered his magic).

Nevertheless, no ones’ fears or aspirations stopped the passage of time (though Merlin, in his increasing power, had put it on his “List of Things to Try Before I Die”), and Arthur’s crowning ceremony crept closer, day by day.

Hunith, Merlin, Leon, Gwen, and Gaius were gifted front row seats to the event, and as annoyed as Uther was at having the front row taking by commoners, a servant, and a young knight, he didn’t dare argue; he’d learnt that it was pointless now. Morgana was stood behind Uther’s throne at her own seat, giving Arthur a rare smile, not a hint of teasing in her expression, and Arthur returned it easily, comforted by the dream she told him she had the previous night (of adoring crowds and a grinning Merlin) despite his nerves.

The ceremony of course went of without a hitch, a rare smile on Uther’s face, and tears on all the faces of Arthur’s front row.

After an uproarious round of applause and chants of “Long Live The King, Long Live The Prince!”, the room cleared, leaving only Uther, Arthur, Morgana, Merlin, and a few faceless guards.

(Gaius, Hunith, Gwen, and Leon rushed off, wanting to be at the front of the crowds in the courtyard when Arthur and Merlin were presented to the Kingdom.)

Merlin didn’t hesitate in rushing up the steps to Arthur, wrapping his soulmate in a tight hug and whispering his pride into his blushing ear. For once, Morgana didn’t roll her eyes at the display of affection; Arthur may have occasional spurts of arrogance, and the two of them still acted like immature children occasionally, but she loved them both dearly. Uther did roll his eyes, though he could not hide his fondness from Morgana, who raised (yet another) teasing eyebrow at him. He glared at her half-heartedly before clearing his throat, and the boys jumped apart with a start.

He wordlessly nodded towards the door of the Throne Room, and walked out regally, his steps fast and heavy and his cloak billowing behind him. Merlin and Arthur followed quickly, hand in hand, and Morgana walked closely behind them, the guards bringing up the rear. The group finally made it to the large double doors that opened out onto the balcony above the courtyard, though it was two corridors previously that they began to hear the cheering and festivities below.

Arthur could feel Merlin’s hand shaking in his own, and squeezes it comfortingly, giving him a reassuringly soft smile as he murmurs, so Uther can’t hear them:

“Don’t worry, it’ll only be a few minutes, then we’ll come back in. You’ll be introduced to nobles and such during the feast,-”

When Merlin begins to look even more distressed, Arthur rolls his eyes good-naturedly and continues before his Warlock can interrupt him:

“-yes, I know, we’ll have to mingle, but this evening, it’s just us and the others. We’ll take some food and wine back to yours, and we can have some fun and all fall asleep in front of the fire together. Alright?”

Merlin takes a deep breath and nods, but before he can say anything, Uther stops his conversation with one of the guards and abruptly turns around, his face tersely concerned.

He takes one look at the boys before tutting and stepping towards them. Arthur freezes in shock as Uther begins to run a gloved hand through his hair, neatening it out and flattening it properly under the newly placed crown before stepping back again with a satisfied nod of the head. Arthur’s wide eyes stare straight ahead, and Morgana (having snuck in front of them to watch the whole ordeal) has to stop herself from snorting at his face. If she thought that was funny... well.

Next, Uther’s eyes move to Merlin, where he gives an even more disapproving tut and steps forward once more. He removes one of his gloves quickly, wetting his thumb with his tongue before wiping it just a little too harshly along Merlin’s nose, muttering-

“How the hell are you always so Godamn grubby?”

-to himself. Morgana doesn’t manage to hold in her giggles at that, clamping a hand over her mouth as she dedicates this whole scene to memory forever. Arthur is staring at his father with not even an attempt to hide his bafflement, but at this point, Uther is too busy brushing invisible lint off of Merlin’s shoulders to notice the incredulous stares from the three teenagers (and all the guards).

He finally steps back, huffing out a sigh, and muttering-

“That will have to do, I suppose.”

-before turning back to the doors and gesturing to the guards. Morgana, and Arthur have only a moment to regain their composure before they are ushered out on the balcony; Merlin staying back as he had been informed to do that morning, though he can hear the cheers get impossibly louder as the three royals greet their people.

Arthur glances back, just quickly, giving him one last smile before facing his people and standing in support of his father’s kingly speech:

“My people! Today, on this year’s Winter Solstice, my son has come of age!-”

The crowds had quietened significantly when Uther began, but another cheer went up at his words, and he paused, holding a silencing hand up:

“-I now present him to you, as Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon, heir to the throne of Camelot, my successor!”

His hand moves to gesture at Arthur, and the Prince steps forward as The King steps back, a wide smile on the blonde's face as his people cheer for him. He waves back, eyes searching the crowd for Hunith, Gaius, Gwen, and Leon; they meet gazes just as Uther steps forward once more, holding his hand up again:

“There is other news! It is...-”

He looks to Arthur, settling a hand on his shoulder and giving him a small smile. His voice quietens a little, but it can still be heard by the crowd:

“-it is with great pride, that I announce-”

The moment ended as quickly as it had started as Uther turns back to the crowds below, raising his voice again:

“-that my son has found his soulmate!!-”

Arthur had been expecting loud cheers, but their audience grows quiet and still at the announcement, as if frozen in suspense. As he peers over the stone barrier, he can see almost everyone in the crowd pairing off slightly, pulling their soulmates closer as they wait with baited breath to see their Prince’s partner.

Inside, Merlin takes a deep breath, but relaxes slightly when he sees Arthur unclench his own nervous fist, holding it behind him in preparation, invitation, for Merlin to take it in just a few moments:

“-I present to you, a close family friend of the royals,-”

(Morgana scoffs and rolls her eyes, but thankfully no one is paying her any attention.)

“-a skilled physician in training, and a trusted citizen of this Great Kingdom,-”

He gestures towards the door behind him, and Merlin takes his first shaky step forward, coming into line with Arthur as Uther finishes:

“Merlin, of Ealdor!”

Arthur and Merlin walk to the front of the balcony, hand in hand, as the loudest cheers Merlin has ever heard explode from the crowd. Despite the thunderous noise, Merlin can still pick out the cheers of his mother, uncle, friend, and older brother, and the leisurely applause from Morgana behind him, and he smiles in spite of his nerves. Arthur squeezes his hand once more, and they raise their joined fists to the crowds as they grin, struggling to hold in their laughter at the sheer amount of joy on the faces of everyone (bar Uther, of course, he just looked marginally happy) present.

Merlin has become even more recognised around the kingdom; normally seen trailing Gaius (who is also well-known, and well-loved) or, as inappropriate as it might be (at least according to Uther’s council), hanging around with Morgana and Gwen during the day. The castle’s servants and the majority of the knights had guessed that Merlin was the soulmate of either Prince Arthur or the Lady Morgana, what with how often he was with them and the way King Uther was apparently ok with that, and gossip spread like wildfire. But the loud cheers just drive home how well-loved Merlin is, and he tears up in response.

Merlin and Arthur finally step away from the edge of the balcony, and Uther continues his address of the people, though it passes by in a bit of a blur for Merlin, and he tunes out fairly quickly. He’s vaguely aware of Arthur running a soft thumb over his knuckles, and Morgana stepping towards him to clutch the edge of his tunic (loud crowds had never been her thing), but the speech and the cheering are drowned out by his racing thoughts.

Uther’s speech finally came to an end and the crowd dissipated. The King rushed off immediately, after sending what could almost be described as a respectfully fond nod in Merlin’s direction, but Morgana, Arthur, and Merlin luckily had nothing pressing to attend to before the feast, and had around an hour of time to waste (read: relax).

Despite Leon escorting the three of them to Merlin and Hunith’s home dressed in full armour, sword strapped to his hip, the journey took twice as long as it normally did, with various nobles and citizens alike wanting to stop them in the street and congratulate them. Arthur and Merlin were endlessly polite and extremely grateful for the support of their (now shared) people, but Leon’s forceful insistence that they “have somewhere important to be, My Lords, My Lady” went quietly thanked.

Hunith, Gaius, and Gwen met them at the house, and a round of tight hugs was shared; all staring fondly when Hunith wouldn’t let Merlin go for love nor money, whispering tearful exclamations of pride in his ear.

The hour felt like it passed in mere minutes, but it was enough time at least for Merlin to relax a little. Morgana and Gwen helped Hunith get ready, and Merlin definitely did NOT tear up when she came out of her room dressed like royalty, a string of Morgana’s pearls around her neck. Arthur and Morgana had deliberately stored a spare set of clothes here so they didn’t have to go back to the castle to change, and the Prince just about managed to force Merlin into a new jacket and cloak (”Why?!” “Because you have to, it’s protocol, you have to be dressed differently.” “That’s fucking stu-” “Merlin, I love you, but shut up and get changed.” “...Prat.” ) .

The seating arrangements weren’t too terrible. As per normal, Uther sat at the head of the table, with Arthur around the corner on the King’s right and Morgana to his left. Merlin sat in between Arthur and his mother; Leon was, unfortunately, on guard duty, though thankfully he was being assigned to Prince Duty (training, hunts, patrols, bodyguard, etc) more and more, meaning he was stood at the wall behind the two boys.

Thankfully, the only stranger anywhere near Merlin was a respected Camelot noble seated opposite him, and he seemed far more interested in boasting about his son to the King in the hopes of winning him a knighthood than he was in Merlin, and payed barely any attention to him other than the occasional distasteful glare (they did not go unnoticed by Arthur, and simply guaranteed that his prick of a son wasn’t going to end up anywhere near a sword).

So all in all, the feast wasn’t too bad. Merlin’s stomach was turning a little, but Arthur’s hand on his thigh under the table and his mother’s shoulder occasionally brushing against his own calmed him right down, though he still kept well away from any alcohol or too-rich foods, worried about making a fool of himself or turning his stomach even more.

The Gang also had Gwen serving them. Morgana had given up on her pleas to have her join them at the table fairly quickly; she could argue with Uther endlessly on many things, but she knew she was never going to win this one. At Guinevere’s insistence that today wasn’t about her, and Morgana shouldn’t ruin Uther’s tenuous good mood on Arthur’s birthday AND coronation AND soulmate-reveal-day, she gave in. But Merlin appreciated the feeling of friendly eyes, both Leon’s and Gwen’s, on his back for the course of the feast.

Just like during the celebrations of Arthur’s knighting ceremony, the tables were cleared from the room to make way for music and dancing, though this time Arthur and Merlin didn’t have to hide their partnership.

Merlin’s stomach turned more at the mingling he was forced to do, answering awkward questions about the purity of his blood and where he came from and his education and his understanding of social etiquette, almost all of which were phrased in condescending and/or downright spiteful ways. But the way Arthur’s arm, looped through his, tensed, and the scowl the Prince sported when Merlin couldn’t bring himself to, partnered with Leon’s comforting shadow (and even Uther’s, when the question’s strayed into cruelty) made him feel at least justified in his discomfort.

Morgana, at the quiet request of Merlin, spent the entire night by Hunith’s side, shielding her from the malicious glaring of nobles who felt cheated by her accidental winning of a position in the royal family. She was granted at least a little respect due to her being a relation of Gaius, who was highly respected and close to the King, but that was about as far as her favour went, and she was eternally grateful for Morgana’s steadfast presence and silent-but-deadly brand of defence.

The night passed slowly, but not so unpleasantly that Merlin was too desperate for it to end, though that changed rather jarringly when he found himself without Arthur for the first time. The Prince and Merlin had been stood next to each other, though involved in different conversations; thankfully for Merlin, he had been having a rather lovely chat about country-life with the wife of a knight. It was when she was pulled away by her husband to converse with another that Merlin realised that Arthur had also been pulled away by whoever it was he had been talking to.

Merlin tensed when he couldn’t immediately spot his soulmate through the crowd, but took a calming breath when he did spot Leon stood dutifully against the opposite wall, Guinevere next to him. That was fine, it wasn’t Arthur, but it was better than nothing, and he allowed his anxiety to swirl in his lungs for only a moment before he began his soft-stepped journey across the hall.

He caught Leon’s eye, thankfully, and the knight frowned slightly at the empty space next to him before sending a reassuring smile his way, nodding in encouragement and understanding.

Alas, he only made it halfway when he was stopped by a rather harsh hand on his shoulder.

He turns around, barely swallowing a gasp and a flinch, only to come face to face with the noble he had been sat opposite during the feast. The hand was uncomfortably tight on his shoulder, and Merlin wanted more than anything to push it away, but instead he forced a smile on his face and bowed his head respectfully, hoping beyond hope that Arthur would make a reappearance or Leon would see his discomfort and be able to come up with an excuse to abandon his post:

“Lord Otto, a pleasure to see you again.”

The drunken Lord let out a huff of sarcastic laughter, pressing his thumb even more severely into Merlin’s collarbone:

“Hmm, a pleasure indeed. Tell me boy, how is it that you, a peasant, think yourself worthy of such a magnificent soulmate?”

Merlin’s eyes widen in shock. No one had been so obviously disdainful, but the over-indulgence in alcohol, the Lord’s privileged seat at the table, and Merlin's lack of any sort of protector had evidently given him a boost in confidence. Merlin stuttered for a few moments, not quite sure what to say, before quietly coming out with:

“Well... I... don’t really know, I-”

He’s interrupted by a far softer hand on his other shoulder, but is even more shocked when, instead of Leon or Arthur, he found The King stood by his side, flicking an incredibly scornful gaze between Lord Otto’s hand and face. It does nothing to dissuade the Lord, and Merlin can’t disguise his wince this time when the hand once again tightens it’s grip.

Merlin had hoped he’d been subtle, but the clenching of Uther’s jaw tells him he had not been; before he can worry about what social rule he had broken and how Uther was going to punish him for it, The King finally settled his glare on Otto’s face:

“I must insist that you remove your hand from my boy’s person, and refrain from making such improper inquiries.”

His cold tone almost sends a shiver down Merlin’s spine, but the confusion of having Uther being in defence of him (a Warlock) stops the reaction before it even starts. The Lord glances up at the crown sitting strongly on Uther’s head, seemingly reminding himself of his company, before dropping his hand from Merlin’s shoulder as if he’d been burned.

He bows his head shallowly, making himself look as subservient as his pride could manage, and Uther gives him a barely restrained look of disgust when he looks up again, interrupting any quivering apologies he might have made:

“It’s getting rather late, and you’ve indulged enough for one night, do you not think? I suggest you end your evening here, Lord Otto.”

All three knew that it was not a suggestion, and Otto bows once more before muttering a humiliated, red-faced “Right you are, Your Majesty” and waddling out of the hall, towards the guest chambers.

Merlin let out a breath, his face just a little flushed as Uther spares him a quick, concerned glance before pushing him gently towards an on-going conversation between Arthur and a group of knights on the other side of the band. Merlin lets out a relieved breath when he sees his partner, but quickly frowns in concern when he then sees the tense line of Arthur’s shoulders and the way his eyes were darting around the room. He’s obviously paying only the shallowest of attention to the conversation at hand; but then they meet gazes, and the tension drains out of him as he sends a relieved smile Merlin’s way.

Arthur politely excuses himself from the conversation, using the blinding smile that only made an appearance when he was manipulating courtiers and nobles, before making his way through the crowd towards Merlin, evidently trying to disguise his desperation. Merlin was absent-mindedly aware of Uther keeping pace with him, the supportive hand on his shoulder-blade not leaving even when Merlin sped up slightly.

(If Merlin had been thinking about anything other than just being at Arthur’s side again, he would’ve found the odd mix of disgust and gratitude for Uther’s presence very confusing.)

They finally reach each other and Arthur grabs Merlin’s hand gently, pulling him to his side and landing a soft kiss to his cheek. Uther finally removes his hand from Merlin’s back, and it’s the absence of touch that reminds Merlin of The King’s presence. He turns quickly, hand safely in Arthur’s grip, to give Uther a flushed, timid smile:

“I... uh... thank you, My Lord.”

Uther gives him a tight smile, though you’d have to be blind to miss the slight fondness in his expression as he shakes his head:

“Hmm, I’ve been looking for an excuse to get Otto out of here for at least an hour, the man is intolerable, his incessant rambling about his unremarkable son even more so.”

Merlin nodded awkwardly and tightened his hold on Arthur’s hand, but before either boy can say anything, Uther lets out a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders and settling hesitant hands on one of their shoulders each:

“I... am proud of you both, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. One day, this Kingdom shall be yours, and it will be golden under your rule.”

Merlin almost manages to forget the whole... unforgivable genocide thing, and gives The King a weak, though grateful smile, running his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles when he feels the blonde shake slightly. Arthur tears up at Uther’s words, but thankfully manages to keep his voice steady as he quietly replies:

“Thank you, father, we will do everything in our power to live up to your legacy.”

(An utter lie, considering they plan on undoing pretty much everything he’s known for the moment they come into power, but Uther doesn’t need to know that, and the sentiment remains.)

Uther gives Arthur one last gentle smile, before lowering his hands and straightening his posture, going from awkwardly doting father to detached mighty King within a second. He nods at each of them before turning and walking regally away, his cloak billowing behind him and his golden crown shining atop his head.

Arthur tilts his head in question and tugs Merlin’s hand slightly when he sees the small frown on the younger’s face:

“Merls? What did Otto do? He didn't hurt you, did he?!”

Merlin looked up at him in shock before blinking away the surprise and chuckling:

“Ah, no, nothing like that, just asked how a peasant ended up with such a magnificent soulmate.-”

Arthur looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended on Merlin’s behalf, so he settled for an odd mix of the two:

“-That didn’t bother me though, it was... Uther called me his boy.”

Arthur dropped his chin slightly in shock:

“He what?”

Merlin shrugged:

“He said “I must insist that you remove your hand from my boy”. It was very... disconcerting, and oddly endearing considering what he’d do if he knew what I was.”

He whispered the last part quietly, and Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise before chuckling quietly:

“Wow, never thought I’d see the day. My father being protective of a commoner and telling me how proud he is all in one evening, perhaps the world is ending.”

Merlin snorts, rolling his eyes and softly responding:

“Hmm. He may be a bit of a prat, but he does love you, and he has his moments.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at Merlin good-naturedly, a smirk dangerously close to breaking out on his face:

“You know Merlin, you may be right, but you’re still the only person I allow to say it aloud without sanction.”

Merlin just smirks and raises an eyebrow; Arthur laughs, and the world feels right.

It was late by the time Arthur and Merlin finally decided to call it quits. Morgana, Gaius, and Hunith had left around an hour ago, Gwen following them the moment her shift ended. Technically, someone had come to take over from Leon about halfway through the night, but he stuck around, patrolling the shadows of the room with one eye on Merlin always.

(The boys had insisted that he should go home and relax, but were quietly grateful when he stayed.)

They had been wanting to leave for hours, and normally they could easily get away with such an absence, but this particular celebration was in their honour, it wouldn't do to leave too early, so they finally made their way out of the hall when the crowds had halved and it was approaching midnight.

Uther gave them one last pat on the back when they said goodbye, and the tension practically melted off them when they stepped foot outside, despite the freezing temperatures of winter in the dead of night.

Leon stepped out just a moment after them, and the three of them make quick work of the journey to the house, not wanting to dally in the frigid air and just a little desperate to find themselves in the comforting presence on the family they had built.

They arrive just in time to find Hunith pouring out mugs of hot chocolate (a luxury that Merlin and Hunith never had in Ealdor), and Gwen adding another log to the fire. The next round of hugs was quicker than the last; everyone was tired and eager to settle down, to push the insensitive questions to the back of their minds and revel in the positive feeling of things moving forward.

Arthur had removed his cloak immediately upon entry, folding it precisely and leaving it on the table in the hall, his golden circlet following shortly after, cushioned by the soft fabric, but Merlin excused himself to their bedroom, changing into comfier clothes and washing his face. He had been looking forward to leaving all night, but now that he was home, he found all he wanted to do was collapse in bed and sleep, Arthur securely in his arms.

A knock at the door broke him out of his slow moving thoughts, and he frowned slightly, Arthur wouldn’t knock:

“Come in.”

It was Leon that opened the door, having rid himself of his sword and most of his armour (a pain in the arse, considering he’ll have to wake up early to put it all on again, but oh well), and he stepped into the room, quietly shutting the door again behind him. Merlin sent him a tired smile, but Leon saw through it and raised an eyebrow:

“You alright, Birdy? Anyone in particular you’d like me to embarrass during training or council meetings?”

Merlin laughed and shook his head:

“No, that definitely won’t endear me to people. Honestly, it was a lot better than I was expecting, and having Arthur scowling at people and Uther defending me was rather entertaining in the end.”

Leon snorted, muttering a quietly amused “yeah, I bet” before stepping forward and enveloping Merlin in a tight hug, one hand on his back, one in his hair, holding him close. Merlin melted into the embrace, clutching the back of Leon’s tunic tightly as the older man swayed on his feet slightly, murmuring:

“I’m proud of you, little brother. You handled everything just fine, the kingdom loves you; you’re doing great.”

Merlin lets out a deep breath and steps back, though was grateful to feel Leon’s hands still on his shoulders as he replies:

“Thank you. Honestly, I’m just exhausted, I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this for the rest of my life, and I... I don’t want to disappoint Arthur.”

Leon rolled his eyes good-naturedly and ruffled Merlin’s hair:

“You could never. He loves you more than anything in this world, Birdy, you’re made for each other, after all. He would abandon all of this in a heartbeat if he thought it would make you happy.”

Merlin frowns slightly, clenching his jaw:

“Yeah, I know, that’s what worries me. We’re meant to... bring about a golden age or whatever, and we can’t do that if we leave, but I’m not sure I’m going to be any good at the... politics, or the court manipulation or anything that comes with... with running a Kingdom. I know it’s a long way off but...-”

Leon nods in understanding and squeezes Merlin’s shoulder softly:

“You’ve got plenty of time to learn. And hey, if you want to stay away from the politics? Fine, Arthur and Morgana have plenty of expertise in that area. You’re a physician, Merls, not a courtier, and the kingdom already loves you, not because you’re a good politician or anything like that, but because you’re a good person, and you’re worth loving. Just keep being yourself and you’ll be absolutely fine. And besides, you’ll always have us lot to fall back on when you’re unsure; you’ll never be alone, little brother, I’ll make sure of it.”

Merlin nods and sniffles slightly at Leon’s words, giving him another tight hug. They step back into the hall, and Leon gives Merlin’s hand a gentle squeeze:

“Ready? I can tell them you headed to bed, if you just want some sleep?”

Merlin smiles and shakes his head, pulling Leon to the living room, where everyone is undoubtedly crowded around the fire surrounded by blankets and pillows.

From that day forth, Merlin’s life becomes a lot more... official.

He was officially given sword-fighting lessons by a few of the older knights, though thanks to the lessons Leon, Arthur, and Morgana had given him already, he held his own pretty well, and they were more than impressed with the skill level of someone they had assumed was a complete beginner.

He was officially invited to the occasional council meeting (at least the boring, everyday ones). He was always a silent spectator, his participation discouraged, though his presence expected; Arthur always made a point to ask his opinions afterwards though.

His new duties and lessons, on top of his pre-existing duties as the Physician’s Apprentice, AND having to keep his magic hidden and his reputation intact, was all somewhat overwhelming for Merlin, but the steadfast support of Arthur and Morgana when it concerns politics, and Gaius talking Uther down when The King wants Merlin to be more involved in court life, definitely help him in everyday life. Gwen’s hugs and Leon’s hair ruffling are certainly God-sends as well.

The oddest thing was the way people addressed Merlin now. He wasn’t even of age yet, but people were calling him Lord, and servants bowed at him in the corridor. There wasn’t much he could do about the nobles without making some incredible social faux pas, but he always flushed at the servants and insisted they stop bowing and just call him Merlin, at least when no one else is around.

Thankfully, both visitors to the Kingdom and local nobles tone down the snootiness, especially when Uther publicly shows Merlin respect and rumours (correct rumours) spread of Arthur and Morgana’s protectiveness.

Merlin’s birthday was celebrated minimally, though there was, once again, a mix of feelings upon the realisation that he was now only one year away from being of age, and things would surely get even more intense when that happened. But they all tried to push it from their minds, at least for the time being.

As winter broke and the sun came up on what was undoubtedly a Spring day, Merlin felt the most refreshed he had in a long time, though his mood dropped instantly when he, Arthur, and Morgana were summoned to Uther’s private study... only to be given another mini, awkward “I’m proud of you” speech, and given a week off.

Of course, Arthur was still somewhat expected to keep up with his training at least a little, but really, there was nothing forcing him to.

They exited the study flushed with pride and excitement at the prospect of doing whatever the hell they wanted for a week, and met Gwen in the hall. She was worrying her lip between her teeth when they saw her, but she instantly relaxed and raised a questioning eyebrow when she saw the grins on their faces, and Morgana explained what had happened.

It was that evening, whilst relaxing in Arthur’s chambers, that Merlin heard the dreaded echo of “Emrys...” in his head.

He groaned, dropping his head in his hands, out of both frustration and the pain of another’s voice unexpectedly materializing on the inside of one’s skull.

It was just Arthur and Merlin in the room, and the Prince immediately moved from his own chair to kneel in front of his soulmate, running his hands up and down Merlin’s arms as he shakily asks:

“Merls? What’s wrong?”

Merlin just looks up at him blearily, one hand taking Arthur’s and the other rubbing his temple:

“Fucking... scaly arsehole.”

Arthur tenses and frowns as he answers:

“I thought he had given up months ago? Why is he calling you now?”

Merlin shrugs, slumping back in his seat:

“Who knows, he didn’t say, he just-”

“It’s important, bring your little... friends, if it makes you feel any better.”

“-never mind. He just said it’s important, and I can bring my “little friends” if I want.-”

He snorted in dry amusement before continuing:

“-as if I would’ve listened if he told me to go alone anyway. I really thought that me thinking “Fuck Off” as loud as I could helped him get the hint. Apparently not.”

Arthur rolled his eyes before looking to Merlin in concern:

“Well... do you want to go? Or do you want to just hope he goes away again?”

Merlin sighs, but before he can answer, the voice echoes once again:

“I will not go away this time, young Warlock. This is important, and I have very little else to entertain myself with, other than being an annoyance to you. Come.”

He huffs in frustration, standing abruptly and taking Arthur’s hand, dragging him to where their swords are kept as he grumbles:

“He’s not going away this time. Let’s fetch Leon and head down.”

Arthur dutifully follows, strapping his sword to his hip and locking the chamber doors behind them, not speaking until they were approaching Leon’s door:

“No Morgana or Gwen?”

Merlin halts, clenching his hands tightly as he thinks for a moment:

“Hmm. No, I don’t want to freak them out. We can tell them what happens later, but I don’t want Morgana to have to face him again.”

Arthur nods, and knocks quietly on Leon’s door. He opens quickly, and Arthur and Merlin are thankful that they didn’t wake him, though quickly notice his panic when he sees their grave faces and swords.

The explanation is quick, and within a few minutes the trio are making a stealthy journey down to the Dragon’s Lair. There are no dramatic appearances this time, the great lizard is already perched regally on the edge of the platform, waiting for them.

He tilts his head when he sees their tense forms at the gate:

“I’m grateful that you did not bring the Witch.”

Arthur and Leon look to Merlin in confusion as he bristles, tightening his grip on the sword at his hip as he speaks:

“Yeah, well, I didn’t fancy you trying to kill my best friend again. What do you want?”

The dragon does what the trio guesses is the closest to an eye roll and dramatic sigh that his great form can manage, before lowering his head and speaking in English:

“If you won’t listen to me, I suggest you use your new found, though temporary freedom to meet with the Druids. They have all relevant information on the prophecies, you can learn of your destinies from them. The closest camp is a day’s ride from the Eastern border of Camelot.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, but Arthur beats him to it:

“And how would you know that? How did you know we had time off?”

The dragon tilts his head and huffs out a dry laugh, the hot air making the trio sweat under their thick cloaks (it may have been Spring, but it was still cold) :

“I know a great many things, young King.”

Merlin and Arthur can practically feel the way Leon tenses, even from a few paces away. The man, ever the knight, was obviously incredibly uncomfortable with the idea that this dragon knew the goings on of the world, could listen in on conversations, all while being chained in the basement. Before either knight can say anything, Merlin tilts his head, a challenging look on his face as he regards the dragon:

“You... you keep saying destiny, but destiny is pre-written, the whole point is that it’s going to happen no matter what anyone involved does, no matter the interference. So why are you so desperate to have us know it, and work towards it? Us knowing or not knowing won’t alter things either way, unless it’s all a pile of shit and you’re manipulating us.”

Arthur smirks at Merlin’s quick mind and Leon looks impressed, the two of them turning their own challenging gazes on the rather thoughtful looking reptile. He mutters something along the lines of “you weren’t so bloody clever last time,” before lowering himself even closer to the ground, closer to Merlin:

“If I were manipulating you, then I wouldn’t send you to a third party known for being pacifist and unbiased, would I? Destiny isn’t completely certain, it is simply one of many likelihoods, the most... benefitting likelihood, is the destiny of you and your soulmate.”

Merlin scowls:

“Benefitting for who? Something tells me that one day you’re going to ask us for something, and we’ll be powerless to say no, thanks to all this... help you’re giving us, and it’ll be a mistake. So, benefitting who?”

The dragon shifts his jaw in such a way that resembles a smirk, speaking once again in the rasping language that Leon and Arthur don’t understand:

“Do you not want magic, yourself, your people, to be free, Emrys?”

He raises himself to his full height, stalking towards the ledge and stretching his leathery wings out. The trio manage to hold their ground in his dauntingly large presence, but their hands do tighten around their weapons:

“Go to the Druids, tell them Kilgharrah sent you.”

With that, he tips himself over the edge, falling for a second before snapping his wings out once again and shooting upwards towards the shadow-bathed ceiling, thick chain clanging loudly with the sudden movement.

Merlin huffs and turns to ascend the steps without another word, grumbling to himself about “stupid fucking dragons” and “my one week off and I have to deal with this shit” . Leon and Arthur look to each other with a shrug and a mix of genuine concern and mild amusement on their faces, before hurriedly following Merlin back through the castle.

Thankfully, it took almost no effort for Arthur and Morgana to get Uther to allow them to leave the Kingdom on their little vacation. It being under the guise of “visiting Ealdor” meant that it was perfectly within the realm of reasonable requests to have Leon tag along as “protection” as well. Guinevere was coming because they of course would need a servant whilst they were out and about (though Uther was definitely beginning to suspect that something more was at play between Morgana and the serving girl).

Unfortunately, Hunith was unable to get the week off work at such short notice (mother of the Prince’s soulmate or not), and there was no way they’d be able to justify asking The King for Gaius to tag along, so they didn’t even try. But they set out the next afternoon, having filled Gwen and Morgana in on Kilgharrah’s rather vague and annoying directions.

Neither of them were particularly happy that they had gone to see the Dragon without them or that they were just... doing what he said, but destiny or no, consulting the Druids on Morgana’s visions and Merlin’s magic was still a good idea, and they’d never get a better chance.

Just like Kilgharrah said, they found the Druid camp two days into their journey from the city, almost a day’s ride beyond Camelot’s border. They had to be careful, wear disguises, but they were travelling through virtually untouched wood so they didn’t run into anyone, not even a pesky group of bandits made an appearance.

When the first tents came into sight through the trees, the group stopped to take a breath and prepare themselves, giving each other one last round of dubious looks before beginning to walk again.

They barely make it to their third step when Merlin pauses and takes a stuttering breath, clenching his fingers around Arthur’s sleeve in a white-knuckled grip. The others crowd around him worriedly, but relax (only slightly) when he looks more confused than anything else. Before they can ask what’s wrong, he peers between them towards the tents:

“Uh... how are you- are you Druid? Is this one of you?”

Arthur’s eyes widen as he realises:

“Someone’s in your head again?”

Merlin nods distractedly but doesn’t move his gaze, speaking louder:

“Hello??”

Finally, a middle-aged man steps out from the camp; he wears floor length, dark green robes, and his silver hair almost falls to his shoulders. He gives the group a kind smile before finally focusing in on Arthur and Merlin, bowing his head slightly:

“My Lords. Our seers saw you coming some days ago, and we felt your presence the moment you entered our wood, Emrys.”

Merlin clenches his jaw slightly:

“Please don’t call me that, my name is Merlin... and... Kilgharrah sent us?”

He says it as if it’s a question and the Druid gives Merlin an assessing gaze, before nodding slightly. Before he can verbally respond, Leon steps subtly in front of the others. Morgana rolls her eyes at his protectiveness and Arthur huffs, but before they can challenge him, he asks:

“What do you mean, you felt his presence?”

He tilts his head again and smiles slightly, as though amused:

“Em- Merlin is rather powerful; we can sense him from miles away, his magic is incredibly... distinctive.”

Merlin frowns, holding Arthur’s hand protectively in his own as he side-steps Leon:

“What does that even mean? I’m not that powerful.”

The man shakes his head slightly and gestures behind him:

“Come. I imagine you have many questions about many things. The camp awaits your presence, My Lord.”

Merlin frowns at the title, but the Druid turns his back and begins walking back into the centre of the camp before he can challenge it. He gives a small shrug and a quiet “well, here we go” to the others before following his trail, Arthur’s hand still clutched tightly in his.

They all receive peculiar looks as they walk through the camp. Life seems to stop as everyone pauses what they’re doing to stare at the intruding teenagers (and Leon), but they keep their heads down, all letting out a relieved sigh when the man leads them to a tent, gesturing for them to sit around a table, and closing the fabric gently behind him.

He turns around with relaxed shoulders and an easy smile, not acknowledging that none of them are sat down and are instead gathered in a huddle by the table:

“My name is Iseldir. Druids don’t have strict hierarchies, but I’m considered the chieftain here, welcome.”

He looks at Merlin as he speaks, and the young Warlock nods slightly. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it again with furrowed brows; Iseldir raises an eyebrow and Merlin hums thoughtfully before trying again:

“I was going to introduce everyone, but something tells me that you already know who we are.”

Iseldir smiles again and nods, the expression on his face looking something similar to pride:

“Yes, I know who you all are. I see that you are learning to trust your instincts, My Lord.”

Merlin grimaces:

“It’s just Merlin, please. It’s bad enough that everyone at the castle calls me Lord now, I’m not even of age yet.”

The Chieftain’s smile widens in amusement as he nods, and Morgana is the next to speak up, her hand clutched tightly in Gwen’s as her voice shakes only slightly:

“We were sent here to learn about our... destinies?”

Iseldir nods, politely ignoring the way Merlin reaches behind him to grab Morgana’s wrist comfortingly, and how Leon and Arthur rest their hands near their swords:

“I have everything we need laid out here; it isn’t too complicated and we should get through all of it by this evening.”

The teenagers finally move to the seats, but make no effort to hide the way they shuffle the furniture to be sat closer together. Morgana and Merlin are sat in the middle, Arthur and Gwen flanking them protectively; Leon remains standing, a hand on each of his magical kid’s shoulders and a blank, though slightly challenging look on his face. Iseldir raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment, moving to sit on the opposite side of the table and shuffling a few papers around before looking up with a smile:

“Let us begin.”

The general mood of the room could be judged accurately by how tense Leon was at any one moment. Though he remained standing, he was relaxed and curious when Iseldir told them about the extent of Merlin’s powers (which Merlin looked incredibly dubious at), and he smiled proudly when they were told of Merlin and Arthur’s intertwined destinies (the nature of their soul-bond means he already knew they had some sort of great future, and this only proved it).

It was when Iseldir hesitated slightly as he gave Morgana a pitying look that Leon tensed up, and tightened his grip on her shoulder.

“You must all remember that destinies are... tricky. They are incredibly difficult to avoid, but it isn’t impossible; the future is not set in stone.-”

Morgana takes a deep breath and straightens her back, taking Merlin’s hand in her own and settling her face into a determined grimace:

“Just come out with it. Just tell me.”

Iseldir gives her a comforting smile as he nods, turning a sheet of incredibly ancient looking paper over and pushing it across the table towards them. On the scroll is a old, rough charcoal drawing of a woman with long, dark hair, her clothes somehow elegant and tatty at the same time. Her face is covered by a hood, but her arms are outstretched and violent looking flames extend from her hands, burning and destroying all the foliage drawn around the edge of the paper.

Morgana reaches a shaking hand out to touch the drawing but withdraws her hand before she makes contact, ignoring the tears gathering in her eyes as she looks up at Iseldir again:

“That’s me, isn’t it? Burning things?”

Iseldir nods slowly before speaking, his voice low and gentle, understanding:

“It is said that if you come into your full power, you will unite with The Once and Future King’s Bane. Your heart will freeze over, you will become consumed by hatred and fear and bitterness, and you will work tirelessly to bring about the downfall of Camelot, the downfall of Albion.-”

Arthur interrupts:

“Albion?”

Iseldir moves his gaze to the Prince, giving him a tight smile as he explains:

“The Kingdoms to be united under one name, Albion, with yourself as King.-”

He looks back to Morgana, his smiles turning just a little encouraging:

“-Like I said, the future is not set in stone. Arthur’s Bane came into existence several years ago, we’re keeping close watch on him; he has yet to show any... troubling, signs, nor have you.”

Merlin scowls slightly in though, before slowly saying:

“Arthur’s Bane is... a person?”

Iseldir raises an eyebrow and nods, letting out a breath of subtle relief when Merlin seems more genuinely worried than murderous.

Gwen is the next to speak up, her voice strong and her face determined:

“None of that is happening,-”

She reaches forward and aggressively turns the scroll over, squeezing Morgana’s hand as she continues:

“-not ever.”

Leon’s gasp has everyone’s eyes drawn to the overturned sheet, only to see a colourful image appear on the paper. The first figure to materialize is clearly Morgana, though in this drawing she is grinning, hood down, eyes golden and flowers in her hair. Next, Merlin and Gwen appear either side of her, Merlin’s eyes also glowing as he summons matching flowers in Gwen’s hair, Gwen who is pressing a kiss to Morgana’s cheek. Leon and Arthur appear next, in full armour with bright grins, a golden crown on Arthur’s head.

Iseldir chuckles, looking up at Merlin who is giving himself a satisfied nod as the golden glow fades from his eyes:

“Trusting your instincts indeed; you didn’t even need an incantation, very impressive.”

Merlin shrugs before turning to Morgana with a grin. She returns it with a shaky one of her own, once again feeling not-quite-so-scared thanks to the ever-comforting presence of her family.

They slept that night in a large tent that had been prepared for them, and were woken up early the next morning. They were given a proper tour of the camp and introduced to a few people.

Leon had questions about how the camp was run, in terms of enforcing rules and staying safe, so he was quickly introduced to a few of the elders. Whilst he had been reluctant to leave the others at first, Arthur’s teasing laughter and Morgana’s rolled eyes convinced him to spend the day away from them, learning about as much of Druid politics as he could.

Merlin and Morgana were quickly introduced to the strongest magic users, and whilst Merlin was taken aside to be given some lessons on healing using magic, Morgana was taught meditation techniques and breathing exercises by the camp’s most respected Seer.

Gwen sticks mostly with Merlin; whilst she had no magic to heal with, the herbal knowledge that was being shared was fascinating and she was eager to memorise as much of it as possible. She of course wandered over to check on Morgana occasionally, at first out of concern, but then out of pride, out of a desperation to never forget how relaxed and happy and at-home her soulmate looks.

Arthur spends the morning with Merlin, but quickly grows bored. Perhaps he should take more interest in healing considering how often he and the knights get injured, but he’s already got Merlin, Gaius, and now Gwen, so why waste the effort? Instead, he finds Morgana and the Seer. The sense of relief he feels to see his sister looking so at ease with such an easy smile gracing her face is almost overwhelming, but he doesn’t disturb them, sitting a little way away and silently watching them.

The Prince didn’t even realise he had fallen asleep until the tell-tale pop and the sudden shadow of someone stood above him jolts him from his nap. He opens his eyes blearily to see Merlin crouching next to him, an amused smile on his face and his hand out-stretched:

“Come on sleepy head, the others are waiting for us, it’s time to eat.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, allowing Merlin to pull him up before he stretches and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The sun was only an hour or so away from touching the horizon and he could see no one else in the little patch of woods Morgana had previously been sat in:

“Morgana?”

Merlin smiles softly, taking Arthur’s hand and leading him back towards the tents:

“Happy. She joined me a couple hours ago and we were practicing some simple spells, turns out she has more magic than just visions-”

At Arthur’s slightly affronted expression, Merlin chuckles and rolls his eyes:

“-You were exhausted, Arthur, don’t deny it. You got this holiday because of how hard you’ve been working, we didn’t want to wake you. We’ll show you a few tricks tomorrow alright?”

Arthur pouts and huffs slightly, fighting the smile trying to appear on his face as he nodded his agreement. Merlin just laughed at him again as they entered the meal tent, finding spaces with the other three.

The next morning was just as relaxed, though this time the five of them stayed together.

Leon, Arthur, and Gwen sat against a fallen log as they watched Merlin and Morgana show their magic off. A small audience of Druids had gathered as well, on account of Lord Emrys’ presence, and whilst Morgana tired quickly, not used to having such free access to the magic that had been inside her for years, Merlin could go for hours. He used few actual incantations, manipulating water and flowers and floating lights with just a little concentration and some imprecise waving of his hands.

Noon, unfortunately, came rather quickly, at which point Leon sighed and stood up, giving Merlin a sad smile before looking to Arthur:

“If we want to be home with a day to spare, we should start the journey soon.”

Arthur nodded in agreement and the rest of the group joins Leon in standing. The Druids disperse fairly quickly, but Iseldir stays with them, giving Merlin a pat on the back and a wide smile:

“It was a pleasure to have you here My Lor- Merlin.”

Merlin snorts in amusements but nods his appreciation, and the five of them wander over to their tent to gather their belongings whilst Iseldir collects the horses.

It’s only half a candle mark before they’re riding back out into the forest in the direction of Camelot. The teachers and elders, including Iseldir, wave them off with proud smiles, and whilst Merlin and Morgana are sad to leave this sanctuary behind, they were grateful for the freedom and safety and lessons they’d had, even if it was less than two days. Their utter faith that things would change when Arthur took the crown, that one day Camelot would feel just as safe, gave them something beautiful to look forward to as well.

Their journey home was just as uneventful as the journey out. When they finally pulled up into the courtyard with a day and a half of their free week left, Leon took everyone’s horses to the stable and informed a servant to tell the King of their arrival, whilst the others headed straight to Merlin and Hunith’s house. They had to wait for Hunith and Gaius to finish their actual jobs, but soon enough the whole group was crowded around the kitchen table.

Arthur and Gwen (who, though no one else would admit it, has the best memory of all of them) re-tell the prophecies and destinies.

Both Hunith and Gaius were furious once again at Morgana’s so-called destiny, but smiled proudly at her determined disposition, and the obviously magical drawing (the flowers seemed to move and the golden eyes definitely glowed off of the page) that Merlin pulled from his pocket. The others hadn’t even realised he’d kept it, but are grateful.

Next, Merlin and Morgana talk about their lessons. Gaius was intrigued by the healing knowledge Merlin and Gwen had gained, and after double checking that the door was locked and the curtains were drawn, they even showed off a few spells to their captive audience.

(There were times that Merlin showing off even the slightest bit of magic would give Hunith a heart attack and nightmares for days; she finds it doesn’t bother her so much anymore. She knows that Arthur, Morgana, Leon, and Gwen would never let anything happen to him, and the new stories of his apparent great power certainly helped ease her mind as well.)

Finally, Leon spoke about what he had learned from the elders; all bout how they keep camps running, their democracy, and how knowledge is preserved and passed on. It was a little boring, if any of them are being honest, but the bright grin on the knight’s face kept them from interrupting him.

Eventually, it came time for everyone to head to their respective beds and sleep. There was no denying that they’d had an amazing few days, but it was also a few days of constant activity and sleeping rough... they were all exhausted.

As Arthur and Merlin curled up under the covers, grateful for the slightly chilled night making cuddling easier, they let out simultaneous breaths of relief.

Arthur ran a hand through Merlin’s hair softly as he quietly spoke, aware of Hunith asleep in the next room:

“You think we’ll be alright?”

Merlin sighs and Arthur tries not to let the anxiety in his stomach swirl too violently at the lengthening silence. Finally, Merlin turns over to face his soulmate, shuffling even impossibly closer and giving Arthur a small smile. Arthur doesn’t comment on the nerves in the younger man’s eyes:

“There’s all this pressure on us to fulfil our destinies, to save the world, it’s a little... overwhelming. My whole childhood I tried to forget the fact that being Prince Arthur Pendragon’s magical soulmate would mean... everything, in one way or another, some day. And now that day is fast approaching, I can feel it, and I still have no clue what I’m doing. And that’s not even considering Morgana.-”

Arthur’s hold around Merlin tenses at the mention of his sister, and Merlin presses a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw before continuing:

“-I would give up all of it, everything, to save her. To see her happy. But... do I really have the right to make that decision? My people are counting on me, but you and Morgana and Leon and Gwen, you come first, and you always will.-”

Merlin rolls onto his back again, staring at the ceiling with furrowed brows as Arthur watches him mournfully:

“-I’ve spent so long being terrified of the fact that I know you would give up your crown if I just asked you to, and now I’m close to making the same decision myself; giving up everything for one person, to the detriment of the world.-”

He turns his head to face Arthur again, tears in his eyes:

“-I don’t know what to do, Arthur.”

The Prince clenches his jaw, having to push down the swell of anger at... everyone really. Kilgharrah, the Druids, the Gods, whosever idea this whole destiny shit was. Arthur often thought of himself as a fully matured adult whose place in the world was clear, but at times like these, he’s reminded of how young he is, and how Merlin is even younger.

He pulls the Warlock into a tight embrace, tucking his dark hair under his chin and running a soft hand over his back:

“I will stand by you, always, and we’ll figure it out, we always do. The future is fluid, Merls, we just have to keep an open mind and push through. We’ve all been through a little bit of hell, but that day? That you can feel approaching? That’s the day we change the world. I’ll force my father from the throne if that’s what it takes,-”

Arthur feels Merlin tense to argue, but rushes on before he can say anything:

“-not just for you, but because it will be the right thing to do, one day. This Kingdom, and then the world, will be golden, and the five of us, and Gaius and your mum, will be together every single step of the way. Ok? You don’t have to do anything, Merlin, not alone, not ever.”

Merlin relaxes again, and Arthur can feel his sigh of relief across his collarbones. The room goes silent for a while, and Arthur only just hears Merlin’s quiet words before he slips into a sleep filled with peaceful dreams full of meadows and flower crowns and golden eyes:

“Yeah... I think we’ll be alright.”

THE END!!

After thinking about it for a few days, and re-reading the series, I’ve decided that I actually like the ending here!

I hope y’all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, thanks anon for sending the idea to me all those months ago! :)

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bloodycassian · 3 years

Text

An arrangement of power - reader is an officer for a top tier Illyrian camp. The bat boys introduce someone to the Illyrian way.

Would love some feedback on this - if you guys want this continued etc.

A dark hum fell over the camp as the long awaited night court party arrived. You took a deep breath, the tension in your shoulders peaking. The Illyrians were in formation as you had ordered, their wings tucked in formally behind them. Their swords polished and shining. The soldiers were utterly silent, awaiting their high lord. Knowing a foot out of line would lead to a steep punishment. The grace of his entrance was overwhelming. You felt as if your shoulders were near a breaking point from the stress. Your jaw clenched as the general scanned the crowd, looking for anyone out of sorts. Thankfully, not one of your soldiers took the challenge he presented. "A fine day for flying, isnt it?" The high lord greeted you. Your wings flexed, and you bowed. "Welcome to the highest ranks of Illyria. Ravik extends his graces to you, high lord. And company. This camp has come a long way since its foundings." You welcomed the whole party. You glanced over a shoulder at Tariel, the camp's highest ranking officer, just a step below you in the pecking order. He gave the signal, and the camp placed a fit on the shoulder in unison. The three most powerful Illyrians in existence all raised their eyebrows in shock. You nearly shook with relief once you were given the signal to bring the court into the camp leaders tent. Ravik was generally a considerate male, for Illyrians at least. But you couldn't recall a time someone had disrespected him and left that tent harm free. As the camp leader, he had to enforce his position against any that would dare rival him. The tension did not leave totally, but the general welcome was out of other way at least. "I must say I am impressed." Rhysand said with a coy grin once you had exited the public eye, leading him to Ravik's massive tent. You nodded thoughtfully, attempting to keep your cool and not let your hands shake as you held up the tent flap for the group to walk inside. The three Illyrian males and the small, young male they had brought along. You stood in the corner behind Ravik, letting yourself relax just a miniscule amount more now that the high lord's attention was not focused solely on you. The spymaster with the broken hands did scan every inch of the room, however. It made your skin crawl. "Last time I saw you, you were in the mud of a battlefield, turning over bodies." Ravik said, voice gravelly with centuries of shouting orders. "And look who I managed to find, not among those bodies." Rhysand replied, nodding to the two commanders at his sides. Their grins in response made your heart race. They looked like predators. The male behind them was motionless, and seemed to almost blend in with the background of the tent where he stood. He showed no emotion, just those bright eyes boring into Ravik's. "And what is this then, surely this one wasn't left on those killing fields after the war." Ravik pointed a crooked finger behind them. The generals' siphons glowed a bit brighter at the words, but when their leader nodded they parted, revealing the boy with wings. Ravik gasped. Rhys smiled devilishly. "This is Nyx." He placed a hand on his shoulder and brought him forward. "And he will be training with you." +++++ Ravik was stunned silent for several seconds. You had made a subtle move forward as the tension in the room spiked yet again. The siphons glared all around. Ravik's were dull, as if he wasn't threatened. You let that comfort you - slightly. The boy said nothing. Rhys said nothing. As if they were waiting to see how you would react. Nyx's wings slowly unfurled behind him, then you recognized it. The shape and size of them, the lighter coloring of them against normal Illyrians. The way he seemed to blend in, unless he was front and center. The high lord's son. The name had registered slightly, but was more like a myth. The boy born of a once human mother. The boy blessed by Night itself. His fathers successor. His father's son, now that you could see. The silence broke when you took one step further, standing beside Ravik, and bowing yet again. You hoped it would cultivate peace, and relieve the tension in your body. You could have turned to jelly under the high lord's stare. "Thank you." Nyx's voice was a soft, light tone. But seemed to echo with the remnant of power lurking behind it. His eyes bore into you, then flashed to Ravik as he began laughing. A cold, choking sound that you'd heard maybe twice in the one hundred fifty years you'd known him. Your blood ran cold. "You want your prodigy sent to Illyria? For what kind of training that Cassian hasn't shown him? Or what magic tricks the living shadow hasn't?" Ravik laughed dismissively. Nyx did not look away from him as his father prowled the room, walking over to a set of ancient armor in the corner. The fur rug beneath him seemed to shrink in his presence. He admired it a moment, the silence making you want to flee the flimsy cloth tent. It felt suffocating with so much power in the room. The Prodigal son looked to his shoulder to Cassian, who nodded. Then cast out a hand to the armor his father was admiring, then it was gone. You blinked, and Rhysand only chuckled. Your gaze drifted to the now horrifyingly powerful son and you realized. The armor lay on the ground, bent to pieces like it had been melted. The leash of transparent power he held rivaled his fathers. The room was throbbing with silence. The words to be said were a million and nothing all at once. "That was my favorite piece." Ravik said, unbothered. "What is the point here Rhysand, I take him in so you can do what? Him tp be able to pin the Prince of Bastards?" He scoffed, standing from the head table. Nyx cringed, showing the only emotion since arriving. "He needs to learn the ways of all people in his court." Rhys nodded to his son, who looked at him with discomfort. "He needs to learn of his heritage." Ravik seemed to consider a moment, then barked another laugh. The tension eased slightly yet again. A rollercoaster of emotion trapped inside the too small tent. "This is no place for his actual heritage, Rhysand. You know as such." He slowly talked to Nyx, grasping his chin and turning his head. Nyx's eyes never left the camp leader's. Rhysand smiled, and took a seat at the opposing side of Ravik's desk. "High Ladies are hard to please, it would seem. This was the only camp she would allow." Ravik hummed a response, then let go of Nyx's chin and patted him on the cheek. He turned his back on the high lord's son, and sat back down in his throne like chair. "So you want him to train. I will need to know his skill level to see where to start him at." Cassian raised an eyebrow to Azriel, who gave him a slight nod in response. "We can show you-" Cassian began, but was cut off by Ravik's burning stare. He held the cards in this decision, Rhysand couldn't force him into training his son. "He will fight against my master officer." You felt your heart sink to your heels. "You understand, of course. So we know how he reacts in a real battle situation. So we know you're not playing it up for show." He laced his fingers in front of him and smiled sweetly at the high lord. Azriel's fists clenched. Rhys' stare at the camp lord was enough it made you want to melt into a puddle. You felt yourself begin to sweat with nerves. With the power Nyx had just shown you wanted to flee the tent completely, not face off against him. Even if it was just for training. You didn't know the extent of those powers, and it was terrifying. "If your Officer is open to it, I accept." Nyx said cordially, those piercing eyes sizing you up. You wanted to groan, but only nodded. Your pride couldn't take the hit of rejecting such an offer. If he kicked your ass, it was to be expected by someone with such power. Rhys stood with the grace of a cat, and extended an arm to Ravik. "Thank you, old friend." He smiled again, and Ravik extended an arm to the high lord. They locked arms, hands clasping their elbows. It felt like a weight was sinking inside you. Cassian patted Nyx on the back, and you attempted your best smile at him.

#acotar fic #reader insert #acotar #rhysand #azriel #cassian

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sodalitefully · 3 years

Text

Santa Slash is coming to town...

This fic is the Christmas-themed spiritual successor to my Easter Bunny AU. Special thanks to @slashscowboyboots for supporting all my holiday nonsense!

Four snapshots from Slash’s Christmas prep marathon through the years:

🎄🎄🎄🎄

Jingle bells.

Fucking jingle bells.

There were FIFTEEN of them on the stupid-fucking-candy-colored costume he had to wear at this godforsaken excuse for a seasonal job. “Earn some extra cash,” they said. “It’s easy, you barely have to do anything,” they said. "You'll be perfect, you already look the part!" they said.

"They are about to find a size-ten jingle-toed bootie up their ass,” Axl said – to himself, as he rushed into the storage room turned "dressing room" and buttoned up his itchy red and green vest with one hand while sipping an Orange Julius from the food court with the other.

“Hey, Axl! You’re barely late today, awesome!”

And then there was this weirdo.

Axl could not for the life of him explain why a shopping mall in Indiana elected to hire a skinny dude in his 20s with a dark complexion and a nose ring to portray Saint Nick himself, but whatever the reason, Axl was stuck working with this fruitcake until Christmas Day. Sure Slash was nice enough (oh yeah, and his name was Slash, or at least that's how he introduced himself without offering any explanation or even a last name), but he was way too enthusiastic about getting paid minimum wage to let strange kids sit in his lap at a grimy old shopping mall.

Uh, not in a weird way, Slash was good with the kids, really. But sometimes... it seemed like he was taking his role a little too seriously.

"How come you don't have a beard?" the first customer of Axl's shift, a little girl in a Tweety bird sweater and blonde pigtails, asked suspiciously.

"That's a good question,” Slash said, scratching at his bare chin. The neck of his Motörhead Beyond the Threshold of Pain Tour T-shirt was visible over the faux fur collar of the Santa costume, and his shiny black boots clearly came from a military surplus store. “I get asked that a lot but the truth is, it just isn't a flattering look, trust me. I tried it once, and the elves could barely look at me in the eye." To Axl’s incredulity, the girl actually accepted that answer. "Now tell me, what would you like for Christmas this year, sweetheart?"

As usual, Axl tuned out at this point. Fake a smile for the overprotective parents, take the painfully awkward commemorative photograph, try not to look like he would rather die than hear Slash try to gently explain that Santa will probably not be delivering a pony this year one more damn time, rinse and repeat – until about an hour later, when the unthinkable happened.

The less said about about the incident, the better. Suffice to say, one of the darling angels tossed his Christmas cookies, and some of the resulting mess wound up soaking into the front of Axl’s elf costume. As if he needed another reason to hate his job; this was just adding insult on top of injury (that is, the injury to Axl’s pride as a result of being forced to wear the most ridiculous-looking costume he’s ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on).

“That’s it. I quit.” He grabbed the elf cap off his head and slammed it on the ground, then stormed through the exit gate past the sign wishing customers a "Holly Jolly Holiday Season," the bells on his costume ringing merrily as he stomped his feet.

“Hey, wait!”

“No,” Axl growled, but he did turn around to look back at Slash, still sitting in the plastic candy-cane throne unbothered by the mess or the sniffling child now mostly placated by a peppermint candy. "What."

Slash offered him a bright, beguiling smile.

"What do you want for Christmas, Axl?"

-----

Nothing said "holiday cheer" like wandering the tinsel-adorned labyrinth that was a Walmart superstore a week before Christmas, with Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" echoing through the tinny PA system and surrounded by other last-minute vultures hopelessly scavenging the picked-over aisles.

In Izzy's defense, he actually finished all his shopping early this year, for once. But then his two little brothers begged him to drive them around town to find the perfect gift for a girl at school that they apparently both had a crush on, and like a fool he agreed.

He was regretting it now. Anything would be better than subjecting himself to nearly an hour of top-40 Christmas music. The jingle bells were jingling, the carolers were caroling, the B-list pop stars were spitting out god-awful covers of Christmas classics, and don’t even get him started on the commercials.

He wasn't about to walk around in public with his fingers shoved in his ears (at least, he wasn't that desperate yet), but he did squeeze his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to force himself to relax. Just take deep breaths and think of The Rolling Stones...

"Hey, uh, you doing okay?"

Izzy opened his eyes reluctantly. In front of him was a young man wearing a concerned expression and a Santa hat, stuffed onto a massive pile of dark curls.

"I'm fine. Just finding out if it's possible to die from overexposure to Christmas music."

"Ahhh." The man nodded in understanding. "It's not, unfortunately. I've tested it, trust me."

"Do you work here or something?" Izzy asked. A leather jacket and ripped jeans didn't look like an employee uniform, but his hat matched the store decor and he didn't have a cart or shopping basket.

"No, I'm actually a seasonal distributor. Just checking in to make sure everything's in place before that last holiday rush, you know? Shit always gets crazy at the last minute."

"Tell me about it," Izzy responded, as if he knew a thing about marketing as a cynical 16-year-old. But he had first-hand experience with last-minute crises, and as if to prove it, his brothers came running up to him at that moment.

"Jeff! We can't find anything good, what should we do?"

"What's the problem?" the stranger in a Santa hat asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"We don't know what present to get for a girl at school," the boys explained.

"Hmm..." He tapped at his chin. "Why don't you just – oh wait, you're underage. Well, how about you bake her some cookies or something? That's what everyone does for me and I have no complaints."

Desperate to remove himself from this musical hell, Izzy jumped on the idea. "Yeah, you could do sugar cookies! And decorate them like horses, she likes horses right?” The boys had only mentioned that a dozen times; Izzy was starting to wonder if this girl even had any other personality traits.

To his relief, a spark lit up in his brothers' eyes. Cookies were a perfect idea, and suddenly they were dragging him away to look at cookie cutters and sprinkles.

Izzy turned around to shoot the helpful stranger a grateful look, but when he looked back, the man had disappeared with no trace, leaving not even a furry white pompom behind.

-----

Slash glanced out the window and grimaced – it was cold as a witch’s big bouncy tit outside, nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and took another swig of hot Irish coffee. Damn the North Pole, there was a reason he took his summer vacations in Malibu.

But despite the miserable work conditions, Slash was nothing if not dedicated to his job. In front of him was a sack overflowing not with toys but with the most recent letters to Santa, straight from the North Pole's post office. With Christmas only a few days away, his daunting task was to go through the whole mountain of letters as quickly as possibly in order to take their special requests into consideration before it was time to start loading up the sleigh.

Well, there was no time like the present to get started. Slash stretched his back and got comfortable in his coziest armchair (by throwing his legs over one armrest and slouching until his head rested on the other), absentmindedly tapping the end of his peppermint stick on the edge of an ashtray. He grimaced when he brought the stick back to his lips and realized his mistake.

With a sigh, he dropped the peppermint stick back in the ashtray already full of cigarette butts and ruined candies, and unfolded the first letter. In barely legible green marker, the message read:

Dear Santa Claus,

My name is Steven and I'm 5 years old. Please give me a skateboard for Christmas. My brother has one and he won't let me borrow it to learn tricks.

Hmmm. Five years old was a little young for a skateboard. Knowing Steven, he'd probably knock his teeth out by New Year's...

...Slash shrugged. Why not? All things considered, he would have killed for a skateboard when he was five, so who was he to say no?

-----

Duff was seven years old when his older brothers cornered him in the backyard and gleefully informed him that Santa Claus was a fraud. It was all a lie made up by parents to convince their children to behave during the year, they explained, and the toys were made on factory lines not by magical elves. Their mother gave them a hell of a scolding afterwards but it was too late, the deed could not be undone.

He tried to play it cool, but the truth was, Duff was very distraught as Christmas Eve inched closer. Could his siblings be right? He didn't want to believe it, but if he was being honest with himself, he'd suspected as much for some time. He braced himself to accept the hard truth come Christmas Eve – but only if he was presented with definitive proof.

When the fateful night finally came, Duff and two of his brothers laid out their sleeping bags behind the couch, where they'd be hidden from view if anyone tried to approach the Christmas tree. They all swore not to fall asleep, not even for a second until Christmas morning... And it wasn't until his brother started snoring that Duff realized he was the only one still awake and silently anticipating the moment of truth.

It was imperative, of course, that he stayed hidden and didn't make a sound, or else risk giving their plot away. But... it was past midnight, dinner was hours ago and Duff's empty stomach was starting to distract him from the task at hand. He couldn't stop thinking about all the food he would get to eat with his family on Christmas Day: the glazed ham, mashed potatoes, apple pie and Christmas cookies...

In the dim light, Duff could just barely make out the plate of cookies for Santa, waiting in front of the tree. The cookies were still there untouched, all six of them... Surely no one would notice if Duff ate just one?

He tiptoed over his sleeping siblings, as silent as the snow falling outside, making his way around the sofa to the plate on the coffee table. But just as he reached out to pluck a gingerbread man from the assortment, he saw a shadow of movement out of the corner of his eye. There, beside the Christmas tree in the flickering glow of multicolored string lights, was a mysterious figure in a fur-lined coat and a red cap.

Duff stared at the intruder, slack-jawed. The cookie clattered back onto the dish, and at the noise the stranger whirled around to face him.

"Duff! What are you doing still awake?" he demanded. Duff took a breath to answer – or more likely to ask how the man knew his name – but before he could, the man peered over the couch, narrowed his eyes and frowned. "Oh I see what this is. You thought you would catch your parents pretending to be me!" he accused. "Well, here's the real truth: adults are always wrong and you should never do what they say!"

The man – could he really be Santa Claus? – he planted his leather-gloved hands on his hips as he scolded Duff. "And don't even get me started on teenagers..." he griped, casting a stare over Duff's shoulder where his older brother's leg was sticking out from behind the couch, tangled in a blanket.

Tears started to well up in Duff's eyes.

"Please still give them Christmas presents! I know they said they don't believe in you, but they've been good, I promise!" he begged. Santa's expression softened.

"Aw, I know, kid. I promise they'll still get their presents, alright? Let me just finish up here and then maybe you can help me out with those cookies, sound good?"

Placated, Duff sniffled and nodded, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve. He hopped onto the sofa, swinging his feet and watching with awe as Santa pulled beautifully wrapped gifts out of seemingly nowhere and stacked them around the tree, one after another until all eight of the McKagan children were represented. He took a step back to take in his handiwork, made a few minor adjustments, then turned back to Duff: “Voila! That’s the magic of Christmas. Now pass me that plate, would you?”

Santa sat down next to Duff and propped his boots up on the coffee table. When Duff held out the plate of cookies, he selected one decorated to look like Santa Claus, white beard and all, and promptly bit its head off.

“I love my job, but delivering presents is exhausting,” he sighed, accepting a glass of milk from Duff’s outstretched hand. “I’ve already covered Asia, Africa, Europe, and most of the Americas, so I’d say I’m due for a break. Cheers, Duff.” He held up his glass and Duff tapped it with his half-eaten cookie.

“To a merry Christmas and a happy New Year!”

🎄🎄🎄🎄

#which sounds better:#santa slash or slash claus?#what do yall eat on christmas? i realized while writing this that i have no idea what people normally have #sodafics #guns n roses #gnr #guns and roses #slash #saul hudson #axl rose #izzy stradlin #steven adler #duff mckagan #gnr fanfic #christmas

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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 3 years

Note

Hi Evoe, can I ask for you to write this MCxVinca fic? The request is where mc made deal with demons by giving up ability to feel touch to obtain darkness and light powers so she can keep up with Vinca and her friends. However, demon magic corrupt mc’s soul. Mc went dark and betray her lover by using Vinca’s knife to kill her so she can become Pride and take her mind reading power. Mc made it looks like it’s from Vuzgamad’s ambush and claimed that Vinca made her a successor before her death

PART 1

Written by: @evoedbd

WARNINGS: Violence Blood Broken Bones Psychological Abuse Verbal Abuse Strong Language A whistle Morbid Idolization (testing how this is received before putting the darker stuff out) *************************************

What Yvette dragged out of the bar was not human. Not anymore. It was a tapestry of torn, mutilated flesh. Of fury and indifference mixed into the most toxic being to draw breath. It was pain personified, five foot two and perhaps 100 pounds soaking wet worth of utter agony. Something so utterly twisted, so broken, that just a glance could cause tears to leak from one’s eyes like blood from a serial killer’s knife.

The woman’s head was almost entirely void of hair, covered instead by rows of raised scar tissue from hairline to the back of her neck. Burned and clawed into the skin. The faintest hint of grey bloomed between each row, stubborn black hairs regrowing amidst the pain. This only made the stark white tissue stand out more prominently, especially against bronze-tinged skin. The self-mutilation didn’t end there. Her now pointed ears were uneven, the healed edges bubbly with regrown flesh. Reminiscent of a goblin; an inhuman monster. It was not a clean, surgical modification. Instead, it appeared as if earrings had been torn from open wounds. Again and again until even calling her ears human was a stretch of the imagination. Through each was ring, jewellery far finer than her actual appearance. An echo from the past, of someone else’s past.

Rae Wren, or what was left of her, gave no fight. In fact, she strode with a wicked smirk across her lips, a glimmer of unnaturally sharpened, wolf like teeth gleaming behind blackened lips. The pattern of teeth continued along her lower face to her ear, carved like the lines across her head, then outlined with ink, each point a tattooed monstrosity representing those she had killed. They weren’t for human lives; those were far too simple. Too easy to erase and forget. To replace. One warm body was like another. Breakable. Disposable. Prisons of utter filth for her to pick and choose. It was almost like shopping for chastity belts or cock traps to keep her little demonic slaves in check whilst she played. And played, and played and played… or was it murdered? She didn’t even remember anymore. No, the wolf like grin permanently marked upon her flesh with scar and ink was very special. Each tooth was a life of host and demon both, of those who had seen the end. The final moments. The sacrifice. When Pride had become Rae’s mantle. When Rae had ceased to be anything and everything.

The other demons and humans had their places across her body. Each a line for the demonic veins that should have marked her body. Everybody knew she was a demon, even demons. At this point, she was a whisper in the realms of hell. The devil awaiting every demon who dared rise. Lucifer may have been the terror of man, but Rae, but the Proud Wren, was the terror of nightmares. It had once been said no mortal could make a demon beg, could make a demon fear or willingly return to hell. Rae had taken those words to heart, then proven otherwise. She had proven again, and again and again and again. Until her mere name was proof enough. Nevermind her loving attentions to her adoptive siblings.

But apparently someone still didn’t get the memo.

“You can’t keep doing this, Rae!” Yvette’s words were low, a hiss as much as a sigh. That was so Yvette. So broken herself, so naive. So hooked on her dreams and submerged in her fears. Once, Rae had admired Yvette’s strength. How she was unafraid and stood up to demons. Now… now Rae knew the truth. Yvette was the worst type of coward. She wasn’t even in denial. She was so utterly oblivious that it was almost laughable. Simply sitting next to Yvette for five minutes was a hoot. Popcorn worthy… if popcorn had still had flavour.

“I doubt anybody is going to stop me. You won’t.” Rae retorted, lips peeling further away from her teeth. The reveal of pink may have been a relief, a reminder of her humanity. Yvette flinched as Rae’s artificially forked tongue poked out, splitting around a splatter of blood across her lip. Blood which was not her own. Catlike, she lifted her bloodied knuckles to her tongue, smirking around her mouthful as she lapped at her tarnished skin.

“You’re going to get sick off of that.”

“Well, heaven won’t want me, and the devil has a restraining order against me.”

“Ever wondered what it must take for demons to fear you.”

“I did dethrone your pathetic little act, didn’t I? Hashtag, so sad.” Rae mocked, her lips turning into an exaggerated pout. One she emphasised with fingers pulling on the corners of her mouth and a sluggish drop of her shoulders.

“If you keep doing this, I won’t come for you. I’ll leave you to deal with the police again. Then you won’t get to continue your little vigilante act, Rae.” Yvette’s tone was firm, her brows lowered dangerously over blazing azure eyes.

Oh, it was adorable. A good effort. Truly. Solid jaw, dangerous eyes, crowding her space. All an A plus mark in big girl intimidation…

“You won’t.” Rae laughed, almost ready to collapse with her malicious mirth.

“You’ll try, sure, but we both know you’ll fail. You need me, Yvette. I’m sure only one who can ever truly understand you. The others try, they really do, but none of them have really been there… have they? You and I are the founders of the killed your girlfriend club… so, unless you want to encourage some homicide of the human variety, you’re stuck with me as your therapist. Of course, you could always fix that with just a little kiss. Get your special badge back.” Rae taunted, leaning a little closer with pursed lips, taunting further.

She was so close; Rae could feel it. The way Yvette’s body warmed, teasing Rae’s skin like sunlight on a spring’s day. Refreshing. Comforting. Just like a hug from the latest murder victim. Who cared if the hug was post-mortem… wait, perhaps the warmth was blood then… maybe Yvette’s little tantrum was more akin to demon dust fluttering across Rae’s naked body? Warm with death, ripe with fear and justice… the tingly kind of delightful. Fun and morally responsible. A two for one deal.

“You didn’t kill her. That wa-”

“My own deal to help save your girlfriends ass. I chose to help family and look where it got me. No family. No fiancée. Very little humanity. I’ve gotten more reward for hurting people than I ever got for helping… so thanks for the reminder, but you already know the drill. I’m naughty, you come play mommy, your breathing reminds me I lost everything I ever loved saving your sexy finger warmer. It’s a whole thing.” Rae sighed, pausing long enough to lift a hand to her shades between shrugs.

Cold, lifeless eyes gazed from behind expensive sunglasses, the ones from Vinca Wren’s last project. Rae’s eyes were so scarred, so utterly void of humanity that even Yvette shuddered. Rae’s pupil was more reminiscent of an ink droplet, running into the whites in little sickly veins. The pattern of an infection. What once had been soft, gentle browns had hardened, as if the pigment had been drawn from them until only the yellows of the shade remained. Rare veins and streaks of brown remained, lightning bolts within the everlasting storm of grief.

“If you hate me so much…”

“Why stick around? Oh Yvette, its nothing personal, babe. Pride’s honor.” Rae began, pausing to slide those precious shades into a hardcase hidden within her jacket. Her hands were so gentle with those shades, fingertips lingering as if she might project her touch through time and space, as if somehow Vinca might feel her affections. A moment the world allowed her before the sound of footsteps echoed. The snap of the case was the snap back to reality, a snap which echoed off of the old brickwork. The first beacon. The second was a silver whistle, chipped and worn, one which Yvette was already reaching to slap out of Rae’s hand as the fallen assassin laughed.

“You’re just the best bait.”

Then the whistle sounded.

A short blow, then a longer one, then a short one again. An SOS. One wavering with Rae’s laughter. The whistle sounded only thrice before it was slapped aside, Yvette huffing and puffing furiously.

“You’re a special kind of cunt, Rae!” The Greed assassin growled; decorum lost to her outrage. Rae could already see it, the torn loyalties waging war within Yvette’s blazing blue eyes. The misguided belief in Rae despite everything. It was so obvious, from clenching jaw to pained eyes, how desperately Yvette wanted to avoid this. How it pained her to let Onyx suffer around the corner, just as much as it pained her to war against Rae. In the past, Rae may have broken at such a thing, at such a display. At Yvette letting her heart beat for two sides. For a sister and a lover. Now, it was all merely an annoyance. Not what Rae needed.

“Dawww… don’t you want to go save your girl?” She cooed, before raising her voice.

“Here, puppy, puppy. We know you like it rough, so come play… I may not be Dorran, but I can probably hit as hard. I can even entertain your emotional whore kink!”

The shing of a blade leaving its scabbard was the only warning Rae had before she was sent staggering by a burst of heat delivered in a solid punch to the gut. Before she could even right herself, the slap of the scabbard across her face forced her back another few stumbling steps. There it was. The snap. The goal she’d had for weeks. Weeks of volatile behaviour. Misbehaving a little too close to Yvette’s secrets. Once, it was a line she’d never have crossed. Once, those young lives held meaning to Rae. All life did. Now? Now it was all ash in her mouth. A thirst she could never slake, not that she truly wanted to. Afterall, Assassins fought demons, and Rae had worked incredibly hard to perfect her mutilated appearance. To leave no illusions that she was truly a demon in human skin, even if none from the depths of hell would touch her… well, now she had her own little slice of hell. All fired up, enraged, protective even. Lunging with her blade with the intent to harm. Maybe this time, it would be enough.

Yvette was not like the other assassins. They all fought with a sense of honor. Each had things too low for their heroics. Yvette held no such qualms. She struck high and low, lunging and twisting. A single foot out of place was punished by blade and heels, driving Rae backwards. It was an exquisite dance. Duck. Weave. Twist. A thrust of Yvette’s blade. Countered by a duck and a jab to the ribs. A quick hand was at Yvette’s wrist, twisting her arm aside, tearing her guard down for Rae’s following punch to the tender gut. Break it down, bruise it, take the air from Yvette’s body. For her efforts, Rae received a backhanded slap in response. The echo of gloved hand against flesh was accompanied by matching screams, two immensely powerful individuals reduced to hissing and screeching like fighting cats in heat.

Yvette was again the first to strike out, a wild slash of her blade. Rae ducked, falling right into the precise thrust of the scabbard straight to the collar. She shoulda read that. It was too easy to reach out, to capture every thought flittering through Yvette’s mind. From there, it was a different dance. Yvette could no longer land the blows, yet Rae’s shorter range kept her from truly inflicting any harm. The dance switched from snakes slithering under one another’s guard and striking out with fast blows into wolves circling one another. Assessing. Manoeuvring. Rae didn’t need to keep her eyes on Yvette, in fact doing so was playing the game. So, Rae waited, allowing Yvette to slink around her, letting Yvette find the faux opening… then launch.

Yvette was fast. Rae was faster. A twist later she had her left arm hooked over Yvette’s, forcing the blade to pass her. A swift toss back of her head saw Yvette’s nose broken, bloodied. Tears blinding those remarkably clear blues. Snot and blood choking her. Rae followed through with her elbow, driving it straight into Yvette’s throat. It was calculated. Too hard would kill her, too gentle wouldn’t be enough to drop her. Greed fell to her knees, spitting blood over Rae’s boots. Pride wasn’t done. A tug on Yvette’s trapped arm had Greed falling into Rae’s rising knee. The blow sent Yvette sprawling to the ground, into the grease and muck like some common drug addict. Like the homeless orphan Yvette had once been.

“How does it feel, Yvette? To be back here?” Rae mocked, kicking the lethal blade aside. The clattering of the weapon filled the alleyway, a sound far too familiar for Rae. The Pride assassin flinched, drawing back from the sound for only a moment. Then, it was so much worse.

“Rae! STOP!”

Rae’s teeth clashed together, biting back the enraged scream as she turned towards her worst nightmare.

Onyx Wren. Five foot nothing of gorgeous blonde bombshell. A little fuckwit wearing the face of Vinca… only Onyx couldn’t wear it right. Her bold, neon makeup was a child’s game at beauty, like a toddler playing with mommy’s makeup from her teenage Scene phase. Onyx was all cherub and sweet, with eyes the colour of sunlight through an ocean wave. Figures Onyx would represent the water beneath the skies that Vinca embodied. She was never better than Vinca, never appreciative. She’d let Vinca endure it all. To save her own pathetic skin, Onyx had let Vinca be condemned. Over and over. Now, she pranced about, the good girl. The grieving sister. Forgiven for putting her abuser above Vinca, even in death. Onyx was the sister who let Vinca throw everything that truly mattered away and repaid her with vicious rumour.

She dared? She fucking dared! She dared show her face after everything, to rip into Rae’s chest all over again. It was a holocaust in her heart, memory after memory dragged into the chamber feeding her agony. Each felt like a death all over again. A blow to her chest unlike any physical pain. A lance into the side of a great beast, until said beast was reduced to a feral being. Onyx’s fucking face took Rae’s breath, brought her to her knees before the jeering crowd. It tore Pride down, leaving only a screaming, sobbing wreck behind.

“Fuck off!” Rae screamed, tearing her vocal cords with the strength of her cry. It was torn from her churning, bruised gut, loud enough to drown out the monotonous drill of cars. The former Mechanic howled, hands brought to her scarred head, nails dragging down the scars in practiced desperation. The teeth carved from the corner of her mouth to her ears began to glow, illuminated a deathly bone white. The glow spread, radiating across every scar, until the veins stood stark against her skin, a homage to the demon she swore was within. It was a terrifying duet with every tattooed line, shadows now. Or rather, the complete absence of colour and light. The void left behind in Rae’s heart given physical form.

“You have to let go, Rae. Please. We all lost-”

“I CAN’T!” Rae’s cry cut Onyx’s sentence short. Her hands fell to the ground, fingers clawing the asphalt as if she might find something, anything, to settle her tornado of an existence. On her hands and knees, the Pride assassin once more looked small. Broken. Defeated. So lost and helpless. Her back curled, shoulders caving beneath the weight of her angst. Her forehead met the ground, taking comfort in the greasy coolness for a few seconds before she defiantly lifted her head, fixing Onyx with a look of pure, seething hatred.

Envy looked cut to the bone, deeper than all of Rae’s torments. All her jabs and digs. Every secret she had gleefully sung to the other Assassins, publicly tearing Onyx down. Publicly shaming her, shaming all of them. All the assassins were fucking idiots. They hadn’t seen what was unfolding right beneath their noses, too content to gripe about a harsh leader as Onyx begged for him to stop. As she concealed his darkness to preserve a fantasy. As she was morphed into his little punching bag. His little victim. The Harley Quinn to his Joker. With Onyx’s secrets, Rae had torn all the Assassins down, brought them to their knees weeping, then strutted across the corpses of their self-esteem. She wasn’t Vinca. She didn’t care about these people. About what was right and wrong. They’d all condemned Vinca. All willingly cast her out rather than face reality. If they hadn’t, if Onyx had just spoken…

“It’s all your fucking fault.” Rae no longer sobbed, she snarled, a tapestry of shadow and light, a monster digging into Onyx’s brain, wrenching everything to the forefront in the hopes just one memory flashed across Onyx’s conscious.

“You may have been happy to let her go. I refuse to. I won’t. You’ll have to tear her from my cold, dead ha-” whatever melodramatics Rae had planned were interrupted by an enraged scream, followed by the swing of something straight into her temple. The Pride assassin teetered, forearms trembling to hold her weight for but a moment before she fell, surrendering to the abyss.

Perhaps this time, things would be better in the void.

****************************** 3 years Ago ******************************

She was so tired. It was something which went deeper than a mere sleep could repair. The weight of the world was constantly upon her shoulders; dragging her chest down towards her gut. Her heart felt as if every beat was sluggish, a constant painful rock in her chest, yet one she could not feel. Rather, she felt the absence of her heart, the pain stopping only there, whilst her lungs were further tormented. Even here, with sweat running down her body, leaving her hair stuck to her forehead as if it were a layer of paper mashe upon a child’s sculpture. Even with her blood rushing through her veins, muscles screaming with ever hurried stride she took, her heart did not warm. Each beat sent a pulse of cold through Rae’s body, a seeping despair she was continuously clawing her way out of. Only to find herself somewhere far… darker.

Tendrils of that darkness drove her onwards, pulling and pushing each muscle as Rae desperately just tried to stop. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was collapse, to fall into Vinca’s arms and just feel the embrace. Feeling. It wasn’t so long ago Rae had taken it for granted. Now, it was simply gone. Forever. It was her sacrifice for the abilities she had gained. For what had allowed her to save Vinca time and time again. What had allowed her to save Onyx, Vinca’s twin sister. The power over light and shadow, and the temperatures they could bring. Durability to stand against Vinca’s foes, the strength to protect. If only such a thing hadn’t cost so much. Touch. The ability to ever feel another’s touch ever again. It had rendered Rae’s hands useless, for no longer could she feel a pulse, nor how deep wounds were. Without touch, she couldn’t heal anybody. Couldn’t help them. Couldn’t feel when she hurt them. All she had ever been, gone. Taken from her in a deal she had barely understood in her desperation. She’d tried. She tried so hard to continue on. To pretend touch wasn’t so important. But, night after night, she watched Vinca’s pleasure without ever being able to feel it. She held Vinca close, without ever being able to feel her. The simplicity of holding hands was robbed from her. No, not robbed. She’d given it up in a foolish moment of insecurity, convinced it was to save Vinca’s life. To save Onyx’s life. That was a pretty small comfort now. She just wanted a hug, darn it! No, not darn it. Darn was close, but not what she truly wanted to say. Fuck it. FUCK. IT. She just wanted one fucking hug she could feel. Just one to remind her she was still tethered to this world.

“I’ve got you.” Vinca’s huff in Rae’s ear was accompanied by a sense of flying. Of floating. There was no more pain in her muscles, that migrated to her chest. She wanted to scream, to tell Vinca to stop. That this was wrong. This was all a trap. All dangerous. Something was screaming within her, writhing against the darkness, the tendrils… fighting to be the voice dominating her brain. Even that was murky. The river of the Nile running red with blood. Her blood. Vinca’s blood… maybe if it was Vinca’s she wouldn’t be alone anymore.

“-I wouldn’t be… I’d feel her again. Something. Anything. It’s not like she told me. Nobody told me! Vinca cheated this and couldn’t even tell me until I’d already paid the fucking price… does she really deserve- NO! Stop! What am

I doing? I love her! This isn’t me! I c-can’t hurt her!-”

Rae’s war didn’t end there. A droopy blink later, she registered the feeling of metal beneath her fingers. A kunai. One of Vinca’s weapons from her collar. The blade so close to Vinca’s jugular vein… whilst the Assassin was oblivious. So utterly clueless, or so utterly trusting of her devoted fiancée. Fiancée… they had a life together, a life to live. Years to figure this out. All Rae had to do was hold on, was fight as hard as Vinca had.

“It’s back, Vinc… I almost…”

“I know. Your heart isn’t cold yet, Unco, so stay with me. There’s still time, and I will never give up on you. It’s not our style.” Vinca’s voice was firm, the great wall of China between Rae’s doubts and her conscious. It was only the sound of lips smacking and the momentary loss of breath which let Rae know Vinca had leaned close, had pressed a kiss to her lips. What type of kiss? Was it one flavoured with desperation? Was it biting, Vinca demanding Rae’s submission? Was it tender and sweet? The brush of morning breath and vulnerability only Rae ever experienced? Bitter tears of frustration fell silently from her dark eyes, bathing Vinca’s shoulder as they continued further into the warehouse.

“Yeah… not our style.” Rae muttered in agreement. After all, what else could she do but believe?

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keelywolfe · 4 years

Text

FIC: Beneath an Aurora Sky ch. 20

Summary: The South Pole Station is equipped for research and Edge has always made sure things run smoothly for the inhabitants. His charges are meant to follow his rules and regulations, and in turn, he makes sure they survive in the arctic temperatures. It takes plenty of hard work and determination and Edge, along with his crew, can handle both.

He wasn’t counting on one of the newest researchers. He wasn’t expecting Rus.

Tags: Spicyhoney, First Time, Arctic AU, Hurt/Comfort

~~*~~

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Chapter 18 | Chapter 19

~~*~~

Read Chapter 20 on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

As Edge was walking towards the vehicle shed, he caught an acrid hint of cigarette smoke in the air. He followed it, not inside but around the back and sitting in the shadows of the halogen lights was Rus.

Edge could hardly disguise his approach, the crunch of his boots in the hard-packed snow would have carried in the still icy air long before he came around the corner. But Rus made no attempt to hide. He stayed where he was, a burning cigarette dangling from his gloved fingers as he gazed up at the aurora-filled sky.

He’d already been out here for some time while Edge and the others spoke with Toriel and Gaster. The cold would soon be seeping through his outdoor gear no matter how good it was, sinking its chill into Rus’s bones. Monsters felt the cold less than Humans did but they were by no means immune to it. They could be sickened, frostbitten, and some, like Alphys, tolerated it even less than Humans. As a skeleton, Rus’s endurance should match Edge and Red’s.

Then again, who knew the boundaries of a skeleton from an entirely other universe.

Edge sat down next to Rus, drawing up his knees to rest his arms on them. He looked up at the swirling aurora overhead, the blur of colors rippling together in tangled waves, a sky ocean born of solar particles colliding with the atmosphere.

“it’s so beautiful here.” Rus’s voice was almost too loud in the hush.

“Yes,” Edge agreed in a voice to match.

It was. His intention when they’d first arrived here was only to find a safe place for those in his care, Alphys and Undyne and his still-wounded brother, and later, for Bonnie. Somewhere they could be certain of their meals and shelter. Nothing more than a job to replace the one he lost with the guard and a feeble attempt at that.

He hadn’t expected to find beauty in the glacial whiteness, nor in the endless night sky. He never anticipated the satisfaction that came with seeing another group off, knowing he’d protected them and guided them through this dangerous beauty. He couldn’t have known how Undyne and Alphys would blossom here, both their love for each other and their lives, settling into their place. Or that Red would slowly find his own footing and perhaps he’d never adore the Humans that came here, but he had his own pride in his work, kept all the equipment in top form and helped Alphys in her designs for new additions for the station. And Bonnie, who’d come to them later and never discussed her own inner wounds, yet still seemed to be healing from them. Together they’d created a place of safety for them, a home.

Even after all that, he never could have braced himself for Rus. Who’d settle into their home like he belonged here, their missing puzzle piece. Only it seemed as if he’d come not from their picture, but an entirely different box.

“he told you, didn’t he.” It was impossible to tell if the fog of Rus’s breath was from the cold or the cigarette.

Edge said nothing. His promise to Toriel specified he couldn’t reveal what they’d spoken about. It did not preclude discussing it at all and he only waited as Rus chuckled bitterly, filling in the silence on his own.

“it’s funny,” Rus drawled, flicking ash into the snow, “i came all the way to the end of the world to escape my past and it still came after me.”

Edge thought of Toriel, currently cramped into one of the spare rooms and probably trying not to scrape her horns against the ceiling. “I know the feeling.”

“yeah, i know,” Rus said, grimacing, “i’m sorry. part of the deal of tori sponsoring me was i’d keep mum about back home. i promised.”

“I understand.”

“yeah, well, if i’d known they were gonna pop in unexpectedly, i would’ve warned you about that much, anyway.” Rus’s expression crumpled slightly, going brittle around the edges. “look, i love tori, she’s been nothing but good to me. moms her way into everything. but you guys got your reasons to not want her around, i get that.”

“Rus,” the cloud of his own breath briefly obscured his vision as Edge sighed, “even if they are here because of you, that doesn’t make it your fault.”

“doesn’t it? think what pissed me off most is i know dings is right,” Rus murmured. “he’s can be a little rough saying it, but he means well.”

The resignation in Rus’s voice made Edge bristle, “He accused you of being nothing more than a key made for a particular lock.”

“truth hurts.” It was startling to realize how he’d categorized Rus’s smiles in his own head, the bright, fake one and the softer, shyer truthful one that came with a measure of trust. This one was entirely new, tainted with deep bitterness, “bet big brother didn’t fill in the details, so let me give you the highlights of our family tree.”

“see, our pop was the royal scientist in our world, the real deal. i call him pop, but that’s mostly because it annoyed him. he wasn’t really our father, he was a dna donor. he didn’t even name us, we named ourselves.” Rus was sitting right next to Edge here in the deep cold and still seemed miles away, no, not miles, he was in another world entirely. “dings took his name. not like he really knew there were many options past that or just getting called number one. just as well, i guess, looks more like him than me or blue. dings named blue and they both named me.”

He slanted a glance at Edge, his bright eye lights dimmed behind his goggles. “dings was still really young when blue popped out, what did he know about names? baby bro’s magic was blue, so that’s what he went with. i came a few more years down the line and by then, they’d raided the librarby and found out that papyrus is a traditional skeleton monster name.” He chuckled then, some of the bitterness of his smile invading the sound. “like anything about us was traditional.”

“we were his own personal test tube babies, homegrown like fucking cabbages, and gaster made us to fulfill a specific role. see, the core was important work, sure, but what he was really trying to do was make a machine that could get us past the shield. turns out, third time is the charm for our old man. he made dings and blue first but neither of them could use void magic. i was his hail mary, his last shot, and whaddaya know, it worked.” Rus scowled, tamped out his burning butt into the snow. He dropped it into his little tin and lit another, inhaling deeply and breathing out a cloud of smoke. “he never let me forget what i was for, but dings and blue always tried to be the best brothers they could. after pops kacked, it wasn’t until dings got that machine working that it even came up again.” He shrugged, barely visible through the layers of his heavy coat. “i got to forget for a while, at least.”

Edge said nothing, what could he say? His childhood was hardly one ease and joy; it more resembled the fairy tales that Red sometimes read to him when he still the shorter of the two, listening with wide sockets to gruesome tales that seemed all too possible. It seemed Rus had his own experiences with a sort of wicked stepfather and it was every bit as terrible as those stories. The urge to pull him close, to keep him safe, was itching in Edge and he forcibly held it back, let Rus tell his story.

“i never expected the machine to actually work,” Rus admitted. “dings was messing with it for so long. then we were here. my bro was only supposed to talk to the royal scientist and we were gonna hightail it back. easy peasy lemon squeezy.” Rus chuckled darkly, “turned out the lemonade was too sour after all. dings was pretty upset to find out the guy he was looking for was gone and so was his successor.”

Rus’s smile eased into something warmer, familiar, “it was tori who got me to start studying, you know. my bros always kept me on a tight leash back home, it was dangerous to even go outside, but here? i went out, tried to make some friends, ended up sleeping around some. wasted time,” Rus admitted, “tori suggested i work on my degree. i didn’t see the point at first, our pop always told us our purpose. i was there to power the machine. but, tori has this thing about being everyone’s mom.”

“Indeed, she does,” Edge murmured, recalling his days imprisoned after the coup, with good meals and care instead of execution.

“i think maybe that’s why she’s such a good queen. she told me pops was wrong,” Rus laughed a little in a puff of smokey breath and shook his head. “told me he was an asshole, actually, and that i deserved to have what i wanted out of life.”

“we argued about it, me and dings. drove blue nuts. blue was…he was the failure, pops said. at least dings was a scientist, but blue couldn’t even manage that. dings always told him his purpose was to be our caretaker and he tried damn hard at it.” Rus sighed, dropping his head back against the shed siding with a muffled thunk, “he hates it when we fight.”

“But you did it,” Edge said softly, “you got your degree, you’re working on your PhD and you’re doing a good job of it, at that.” Even through the growing cold he felt an inner warmth at the smile Rus flashed him, the real one.

“i did. i got so close.” Rus’s voice broke slightly, “things were horrible when we left, i can’t even imagine how they are now. and dings, he needs to fix the core. that was the skill that was built into him.” His smile soured back into bitterness, “it’s a compulsion, i don’t think he can help it. he has to be better than our pop. he has to be the one to save us all. blue believes everyone is worth saving, but he’s a protector, and me? i’m just a battery. i was never meant to have any of this.”

A honey-tinted tear slipped out from beneath his goggles and wound its way down, slowly freezing against the chilled bone of Rus’s skull and Edge’s control broke. He crawled across the short distance between them, scuffled through the snow and pulled Rus into his arms. He held on briefly, achingly tight before drawing back far enough to shake him, a little, and Rus looked at him with wide, startled eye lights.

“You are more than simply your father’s intentions,” Edge told him fiercely. “You’re brilliant and kind, and…and funny…wonderful…” He choked, unable to express the wild emotions burning in his soul; if there were words for it, Edge did not know them. Love was too shallow a word, too small, it couldn’t possibly hold everything Edge was feeling, all of it strangled in grief.

Rus reached up and his gloved fingers were gentle against Edge’s cheekbone. “it’s okay,” he said, softly, “i always knew we’d have to go back. i got to see this. i got to be with you. it’s okay,” he said again, crooned it, as if Edge were the one in pain. Perhaps he was, his soul ached as fiercely as if it was threatening to crack. “i saw so much here on the surface. i got to see the stars, i got to come here and see this.” He looked up at the sky, at the brilliant colors still churning within it along with a million twinkling lights looking down on them. “i was never going to get to stay, but i got to see this.”

“It’s not enough,” Edge said hoarsely. Not enough, Rus was supposed to leave here and go back into the sun, and instead, he was going where Edge could never follow, couldn’t protect him, and again, Edge would have given a portion of his own grieving soul not to see that sadness infecting Rus’s smile.

“i love you, you know,” Rus told him, achingly soft. “i know it’s not fair to tell you now, but i can’t keep it to myself. i need you to know it.”

Edge closed his sockets, shutting out Rus’s face and the aurora, saw only blackness and it wasn’t the cold that sent a tremor through him. Then he opened them again, looked into Rus’s face and saw the truth of it, the yearning. And the hopelessness. The need to say it back burned, words already forming on his tongue, but instead Edge blurted, “Stay the two weeks.”

Rus blinked, startled. That was clearly not the reaction he expected to his quiet confession, “but, the people—"

“It’s been two years,” Edge countered, “two weeks means nothing to your world and everything to you. Don’t let your brother’s compulsion drive you. Toriel—"

He almost said she was on his side, couldn’t, his knowledge was gleaned from their talk and words already thickening in his throat, his promise threatening to choke him when Rus kissed him softly, stopping him.

“i can guess about tori,” Rus said quietly, then, softer, “two more weeks.” He looked up again and even behind his goggles, the auroras couldn’t match the soft beauty of his eye lights. “there’s no stars back home. i’m gonna miss them.”

He fell silent, leaning against Edge’s side. Edge wrapped an arm around him and pulled Rus in closer, holding him tightly through the layers of his coat. He was starting to shiver; they were both getting too cold and he was about to suggest they move into the vehicle shed at the very least when Rus spoke again.

“it got so bad towards the end,” Rus whispered, “we stayed holed up in the lab, mostly, but we could see what was happening. monsters were getting more violent, losing control, gaining lv. pops’ diagrams on the core were incomplete. it was dings’s idea to come to another world and check theirs. i had to come, of course and we couldn’t leave Blue alone, so we all came.”

Rus kicked one booted foot idly, scraping up snow with his heel. “s’weird. even the snow is different here. back home it seems…stale somehow. used. maybe it’ll be better when dings gets the core up and running.” Rus sighed. “i never would have come to the station if i’d thought he was close to a breakthrough. it’s weird, i thought i had enough time.” Rus drew back a little, looking at Edge with that soft smile back in place. “but it sure wasn’t a waste.”

Almost, Edge kissed him again, hesitated with their mouths a breath away. Something about what Rus said niggled, something… “Weird.”

“heh,” Rus chuckled, “it’s double weird hearing you say weird. doesn’t seem like your kind of slang, bossman.”

Edge barely heard him. His brother had a breakthrough on the core, Rus said, an unexpected breakthrough. Edge cursed himself, replaying what Rus told him. He'd been foolishly focused on the information about Rus and why they were here, not on what changed to bring them to the station.

"What was your brother studying, exactly?” Edge demanded. He took Rus’s shoulders in both gloved hands, holding him, “You said he was looking for information about the Core."

Rus blinked uncertainly, his browbone furrowing, “um, papers, mostly. tori has lots of stuff from the old royal scientist, dings was wading through tons of it. i didn’t see much, he didn’t want any help. he was afraid we’d miss something. guess he found what he was looking for.”

“Yes, I think he did,” Edge said sourly, “A patsy.” Edge climbed to his feet and held out a hand to help Rus, “I’d like to know what was in those notes your brother found and I think we should ask the former royal scientist.”

“what?” Rus wobbled for a second, catching his balance after sitting for so long, “seriously? you think they’d talk to you? tori said they don’t—

“I should hope so,” Edge said, dryly, “she’s in her lab.” And very likely watching them on her cameras.

Rus went still, croaking out, “alphys??”

“You didn’t know?” Edge slanted Rus a look, but he believed him.

“no!” Rus spluttered, already heading back towards the station, Edge trailing after him. “tori didn’t talk about it, i didn’t even think to ask anyone else, why would i?”

“Maybe your brother isn’t as discriminating,” Edge said, under his breath, letting the wind tear the words away. It was more than a little suspicious that his brother solved the issue of core technology when Rus was in the only place that possessed a replica of the original. Edge didn’t believe in coincidence.

“Rus,” Edge jogged to catch up, taking hold of Rus’s elbow to stop him as he asked, “Do you trust me?”

“yes,” Rus said, unhesitatingly.

“I trust you, too,” Edge said, softly, and leaned in to give him a brief, chilly kiss. “Come on. You’re freezing and I have questions.”

“you’re the boss,” Rus said. It was only a shadow of his normally teasing self, but it was something. He took Rus’s gloved hand in his own and together, they made their way to the main building.

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #arctic au

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gospelofsam · 4 years

Text

OLYMPUS BOUND

OO1 . COUNCIL OF WAR

Zeus sat on his golden throne with pride, although a storm surged below him in his anger.

Flanking his right was his faithful, if not angry, sister-wife, the White-Armed Hera, her silken dress adorned with a cloak of green, blue, and purple peacock feathers. The Queen of the Heavens gripped her scepter tight in her soft hands. Her hair was well-kept, laying in a crown of braids atop her head.

To the Thunderhead’s left sat his second-in-command and brother, Poseidon, King of the Seven Seas. He bore blue tattoos in which depicted his undersea kingdom. In his hands was his trident, a mighty symbol of power forged from bronze and whalebone. The Earthshaker’s hair and stubble was sea green, his sides bearing a set of fish-like gills.

The Mountain King’s most adored son and daughter walked into the atrium, bowed, then took to their thrones awaiting council.

Phoebus Apollo, God of the Sun and Patron of the Arts, golden haired and dressed in a golden tunic, thrummed the strings of his lyre, filling the room with the sound of his sweet music.

Pallas Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Strategy of War, wore a long blue dress reinforced with pieces of silver armor and a helmet decorated with a plume of blue horsehair. Her eyes were a striking gray, her skin fair, her hair as black as the midnight sky. The owl that had perched itself on her shielded arm bore feathers the color of rainclouds.

“Where are the others, your Highness?” Athena asked, tucking her helmet in the crook of her arm.

“They will be here soon enough. My bastards arrive now,” Zeus gestured to the Warrior and the Blacksmith. Ares Enyalios, God of War and Murder, glowed with the bloody red of his fallen enemies, a spear in one hand.

Ares said nothing to Zeus, not even looking in his direction, but he did march to his mother Hera. He planted a kiss to her cheek, then asked, “Why have I been called, your Majesty?” One couldn’t even glimpse his face through the darkness of his iron helmet with a crest of fire, although they could lay witness to the horror of his exposed body. He was without skin, showing only pink and red muscle, sinews and tendons underneath his armor.

Hephaestus, on the other hand, wasn’t as large or as strong as his brother. He was lame, his left leg shriveled like a sun-dried worm. He made up for this, though, with his industrial intuition. He burned with an orange light and used his black sledgehammer as a crutch. He, too, walked to his lone parent asking, “Where is my beloved, your Grace?”

“I’m here, you pig,” Aphrodite walked into the room followed by Hermes, the Messenger, and Artemis, the huntress and twin sister to Phoebus Apollo. Any mortal would see their wildest desires come to life in the Goddess of Love, but Aphrodite put on a specific appearance for the Olympian Council. She was fair skinned with flowing ginger hair. While the Huntress and the Messenger took to their respective thrones, Aphrodite stalked to her love Ares, running her perfectly manicured hands down the length of his body. Hephaestus ignored his wife’s infidelity, as he still loved her with all of his heart. “Is there a reason to why I’ve been evicted from my lovers, your Bitchiness?”

“You will cease your perversions, Patron of Prostitutes.” Zeus commanded, slamming his lightning down onto the marble floor. “My love,” Zeus pointed to Hera with the bolt, “The floor is yours.”

Hera rose from her throne and tapped her lotus-tipped scepter on the oval floor, creating a window of magic upon the grounds surrounding Mount Olympus. “The Titans have returned. They have broken free from their prisons and are declaring war on the Greek Pantheon. My messenger, Iris, has informed me that they have gained both the trust and support of the Hecatoncheires.”

“How many are still alive after billions of years in Tartarus?” Ares asked as he sat Aphrodite in his lap, her soft hands continuing to trace the swirls and slivers of his flesh.

“Enough to storm Olympus and burn it to the ground.” Poseidon solemnly answered.

“I see,” Ares picked up his spear and paced the length of the room, the fire of his helmet leaving behind a trail of embers. “And what of us? What say you? Are the Olympians fighting alone or are we fighting the Titans at are full ranks?” As Ares paced, his bronze armor changed and shifted. He remained skinless but was now armored in many plates of SWAT gear. His spear had been replaced with an assault rifle adorned with a grenade launcher, and at his side was a large assortment of explosives.

The waves of the sea stirred with Poseidon’s mind. “We can all fight for a millennia if we must, but it will hardly be enough. The Moirai, who will be fighting in their own ways, have glimpsed into the future. They have told my brother, your father, what will happen after this war.”

Zeus held his head high, “We will all perish. You will die, as will Atlas. Aphrodite will fall, as will Mnemosyne. And I will die, as will Kronos.”

Ares returned to his throne. “I see…” He now saw a young woman singing of war and destruction for a crowd of rejects. “This prophecy, as cruel as it might be, doesn’t need to entail our downfall. Yes, we will die, but the universe must be kept in balance on our end.”

Athena, who had remained silent the entirety of the meeting, strode to her half-brother’s side. “What I believe Ares is trying to make clear is that our Pantheon must go on. As much as I dislike agreeing with him, I believe replacements, successors, are in order.”

“We will hold the line, and Olympus will prevail!” Ares, in all his glory, stood in his iron fortress on the edge of Mount Olympus, his soldiers ever ready.

Hermes watched over the confounds of Olympus, his winged sandals fluttering to keep him upright. He called down to his Zeus, his father, “We need a contingency!”

Zeus nodded, then wore a gray business suit. The King of the Heavens now stood on a beach, where children were being taught how to surf along the waves. As he walked, his thundery hair and lighting filled eyes crackled with solemn determination. He conjured his bolt of lightning, a column of crackling copper, silver, and gold coiled around each other.

He paid no mind to the surfing children, instead focusing his attention solely on their instructor. She was young, no more than fifteen, with midnight black hair. Her arms were decorated in Polynesian tattoos. She had an inquisitive mind, one that wanted to command. A mind that wanted to rule. She was happily clapping, cheering on one of the young ones for managing to surf along a sizeable wave.

Despite her protests, the God King pulled her away from the site, placing the bolt between her hands once they were away from prying eyes. In that instant, Audra fell to her knees in agony. Her hands burned as glowing gray lightning bolts branded themselves into her palms. “Do me proud, Audra Noelani.”

Artemis walked through the tents as the soldiers of the Northern Union recovered themselves. Apollo walked beside his sister as they weaved in between the man-made covers. It was then that they saw them.

One of the children bore long, wispy black hair and gray eyes, while her cousin has golden brown eyes and blond locks. Artemis and Apollo, Twin Gods of the Sun and Moon, took aim with their golden and silver bows, releasing them with pride and determination. As the arrow pierced Charlotte’s shoulder, a crescent moon burning itself into her pale skin, Artemis knelt before her and said, “Come now, little one, you’re safe now.”

Charlotte, now glowing with a faint silver light, scurried to her younger cousin’s side as his scream pierced the air. A sigil replicating the sun itself etched into his Adam’s apple. The Golden Archer knelt before the crying boy, offering a smile and a smaller bow constructed of gold and cherry wood. As Gabriel took the bow and quiver with shaky, hesitant hands, Apollo said, “ Don’t be scared now. You’re alright, I’m here now.”

With a flash of pure light, the twin gods and the two children disappeared, leaving behind a grieving, frantic mother and aunt and a legacy shrouded in mystery. The Missing Children of Hue would be what remained of Charlotte May-Reiner and Gabriel LeBeau.

Hephaestus rolled through the humble, family owned mechanics shop, his electric wheelchair humming as he went. His brown pinstripe looked out of place amongst the haphazardly arranged equipment and oil stained aprons. The Blacksmith at last ventured towards the back of the shop, where a paraplegic boy with shaggy red hair and lanky body tinkered with pieces of what was probably a larger project.

Hephaestus’ hands conjured a flame, eliciting a flow of lava to pour out of the seams of the storage room. The walls surrounding the boy burned, though no one but he could see them. Hephaestus retrieved his massive sledgehammer from the embers, then rolled over to the boy, who was justifiably frightened. The god struck the boy in his kneecaps, the blows burning into the shape of orange anvils. The child, no more than twelve, bellowed in pain, tears pricking his eyes. Hephaestus steadied the boy, taking the metal pieces he’d been tinkering with previously and reworked them, changing them into a swan much too delicate to have been crafted by the Blacksmith’s large hands. The swan fluttered around the boy’s head, momentarily distracting him from his pain.

“We have much to do, young one,” The Lame God said. “Come now.” The boy snapped his head towards the Blacksmith, nodding despite his hesitance.

Ares, wearing a full set of riot armor, leaning against the balcony of the underground club where punks and rejects and society outcasts gathered to socialize. On the stage, illuminated by red, black and white lights, was a band which went unnamed, as their reputation spoke for them. His fiery gaze shifted to their lead vocalist, a rather tall Latina with short, choppy brown hair. She had the build of someone who had played sports as a child, or, in the god’s perspective, one fit for a warrior. A crow, as if on cue, perched on her shoulder.

The God of War drew his long, razor sharp spear and then took aim. “You’ll make a perfect champion.” Ares threw the now glowing spear at the girl, her collarbone now burning as a red boar’s head took its place where the wound should have been. Aloisa laughed at the pain, proceeding to draw her pocketknife and lunge at her guitarist.

Athena wore a simple linen gown, though it was adorned with identifying plates of Athenian armor. She studied the scrolls strewn across the villa floor, her face as stone cold as it had been during the Council meeting. Most depicted machines that could never possibly work, others were just the ramblings of a madman. She set one of the scrolls onto the mahogany table, casting her gaze over to the boy who stood idle in the doorway. He was twelve, maybe older, with hair so blonde that it was nearly white. His eyes were a striking, glassy silver hue.

Before he could speak and alert anyone that might have been lingering outside, Athena took a paintbrush from a cup that littered the table and broke the art supply into two jagged halves.

The boy stared at the Goddess of Wisdom with wide eyes, the papers he’d been holding crashing to the stone floor. She approached him carefully, a rare smile on her wise face. Kneeling down to the child’s height, Athena used the broken end of the brush to carve an owl into the side of his neck. The young one seethed in pain, nails digging into his pale palms. The owl pulsed with a light the same silver as his eyes.

“I have so much planned for you, Cato,” Pallas Athena sighed, raising to her full height. “You will be the wisest of us.” She took his hand in her own, leading Cato away from the life and the people that had forsaken him so.

#greek gods #twelve olympians #zeus #hera #poseidon #hades #demeter #hestia #athena #artemis #apollo #ares #aphrodite #dionysus #hermes #original story

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mobius-prime · 4 years

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232. Sonic the Hedgehog #164

The Darkest Storm (Part Three): Downburst

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: James Fry Colors: Jason Jensen

With Naugus and Mogul having teamed up, backed up by both of their respective groups of minions, the Freedom Fighters' task to get the Sword and Crown of Acorns back has just gotten a lot harder. Fiona calls out to Sonic that she wants to finish this quickly, and Sonic takes his chance to quip in Sally's direction that he never disappoints a lady, "present company excluded," a comment which just exasperates her though he merely notes in reply that he's just happy to see her back out in the thick of things once again. Sonic and Elias charge Mogul, distracting him and allowing Sonic to grab the crown off his head, but when he tries to give it back to Elias they're both shocked painfully by a surge of energy from the crown. Mogul gloats that the Source has been permanently corrupted to only respond to his own influence, and Sir Connery, outraged, charges forward to engage Mogul in single combat. I can't stress enough that at this point, someone's weird horse fetish (looking at you, Fry) is on full display, as Connery's clothing is strategically damaged to show off his rippling bicep muscles and the manly glare he gives Mogul as he strains to thrust his sword in his direction. It… lacks even the slightest modicum of subtlety. Sonic tries to rush forward to help, but Mogul traps him in a fist made of rock, ensuring that he and Connery can duel it out one on one. However, it turns out Connery didn't even need Sonic's help anyway, because he's got a cool magic sword and the power of righteousness on his side!

With that, Sir Connery's body disappears in a puff of ash, leaving his empty clothing tatters behind. Merlin sadly informs everyone that he used his own life force as a conduit for the energy surge that was able to destroy the sword and crown at once, eliminating the final remnant of the Source of All from this world. A furious Mogul tries to insist he still holds immeasurable power even without the sword, but a voice suddenly booms out over Knothole from the sky, claiming that it does as well. Eggman's fleet of airships has arrived, and within an instant, they blast every member of the opposing team - Mogul, Naugus, the Destructix, and Uma's children. The Freedom Fighters are left shocked at the sudden and total annihilation of their opposition, and prepare for a battle, but turns out they needn't bother.

Look at it, indeed! You would be a complete fool not to attempt to do so at this very moment, when Knothole is vulnerable and its fighting force is already exhausted. But, of course, if Eggman enacted a sudden and decisive victory over his foes right now, then we wouldn't have a comic, would we? And so, Eggman willingly falls victim to the most fatal of villainous flaws, and leaves, intending to return soon on his own terms when conquering Knothole will actually present him with a bit of a challenge. The Freedom Fighters are left to clean up the mess left behind, and give what's left of Sir Connery a proper burial in Knothole's small cemetery. Elias tries to say something in remembrance, but finds that the grief is a bit too much.

Sonic's words reinvigorate Elias, and he gives an impressive speech on the spot, stating that Knothole and its kingdom will aspire to be as brave as Connery was in his final moments, and that his Sword of Light will be passed down the Acorn line as the new royal heirloom. Man, all this would be way more inspiring if Sir Connery appeared in more than four issues and had any personality traits beyond "medieval-esque knight." Sonic, Merlin, Tails, and Knuckles all walk together, discussing how even without the Ancient Walkers, they still have their three chosen successors - Aurora, Athair, and Merlin himself. Their spirits are raised by the thought, but darker things are going down back in New Megaopolis.

…you know, the Egg Grapes may be horrible, awful torture devices and all, but I can't say I really feel bad for anyone stuck in them right now. Well, maybe Uma's children given that apparently they're all still just acting on instinct from their mother's imprinting, but hell, they threw their lot in with Naugus, so I can't really bring myself to care that much. Eggman leaves the room… which gives Anonymous some time to ruminate. You see, their plan went exactly as they hoped, with the sole exception of Sonic's survival. Eggman is now the ultimate power on the face of Mobius, poised to be able to truly win this war and take over everything. A silhouette reminiscent of Robotnik appears on A.D.A.M.'s screen… and the voice of A.D.A.M. quietly reveals himself to be Anonymous, orchestrating everything while hiding in plain sight. That's right, A.D.A.M. has been Anonymous all along! If this seems kind of out of the blue and like it wasn't really planned from the beginning, well, that's because it wasn't. Apparently Romy Chacon had originally intended for a resurrected Robotnik to be Anonymous, but clearly that didn't pan out, and Ian decided to make it A.D.A.M. instead. Far more interesting for Eggman to be betrayed from within, if you ask me, and furthermore, I'm glad that they haven't actually brought the original Robotnik back permanently. It's not often a series' main villain actually dies for real, only to be replaced by someone even worse - I feel like it would just cheapen things to suddenly bring back the original Robotnik for some more shenanigans.

(Unnamed Story)

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Josh & Aimee Ray

What? Again?! Yes, just like before, we have another unnamed story! Now, given what the name of the story preceding it in the previous issue was, we can easily deduce that the name of this story was meant to be "Sonic Riders (Part 2 of 2)", but the title never actually appears anywhere in the story itself, so out of principle (and spite) I'm leaving its name blank here. Sonic returns to Knothole after his encounter with the Babylon Rogues, battered and exhausted from having lost his fight with them. Tails and Knuckles are concerned, but he brushes them off, saying only his pride is truly wounded and revealing their plans to attack Knothole tomorrow.

Again, I have to point out how strange and out of nowhere all this is, given that in the game these three only get into Extreme Gear riding in the first place after entering Eggman's competition. Like, Tails just suddenly made some airboards at the exact same time that the Babylon Rogues showed up on boards of their own? Suuure. Well, using them to allow the other Freedom Fighters to keep up with Sonic is a good idea at least. The next morning finds the Rogues waiting in the forest outside Knothole, wondering if Sonic plans to show up, though Jet is certain he won't given how badly they beat him yesterday. However, of course he chooses that moment with Tails and Knuckles in tow, and a furious Jet begins to race with him, planning to trash Knothole purely on principle now and determined to prove that he's the fastest thing alive, not Sonic. The six quickly pair off with their respective foils, with Knuckles and Storm trading punches, Wave and Tails trying to outfly and outsmart one another, and Jet and Sonic focusing on pure speed. And then… it ends! Again with this lack of closure, Ian! The final page even invites readers to "play Sonic Riders on your favorite console" to find out who wins this race, despite such a "race" never taking place in the game.

The good news is that after this arc, Ian seemed to have realized how disappointing and odd these non-adaptions are, and in future issues dropped them in favor of non-canon pre-adaptions called "In Another Time, In Another Place" that essentially act as short ads for upcoming games. These take place, as the name suggests, in an alternate reality much closer to that of the games, and as such aren't considered canon within the preboot universe, thus this blog won't be covering them. That said, as I mentioned before, altered versions of some games are considered to have happened at some point within this universe, such as both Sonic Rush games. Sonic '06 is a particularly interesting case, as while Ian apparently confirmed that it did happen in the preboot 'verse and small references to characters and locations from the game are included in future issues, the very nature of the game's storyline means that everything that happened in it was erased from the timeline regardless. This does mean, however, that Silver, arguably the most important new character to be introduced in said game, exists in this universe, though we won't be seeing him for some issues yet. Don't worry though - when he does appear, he really shines!

#nala reads archie sonic preboot #archie sonic #archie sonic preboot #sonic the hedgehog #sth 164 #writer: ian flynn #pencils: james fry #pencils: tracy yardley #colors: jason jensen #colors: joshua d ray #colors: aimee r ray

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nomnomzombies · 5 years

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8x06: Identity and Sigils, The Three Eyed Raven and King Bran

**this disappeared somehow in editing. idk what’s happening guys. i don’t really know how to use Tumblr. so if you saved this and it’s different for the third time I’m so sorry**

This is in response to @dr-doomsduck ‘s post

I noticed the Raven sigil and I’m honestly not sure exactly how I feel about it. On one hand, there’s all of the pride for Bran, and this feeling of coming into his own. However, when you look at the surviving Starklings, their journey has been a process of identity conflict and reclamation, but Bran adopting the Raven sigil breaks the trend of the other Stark children. Jon and Bran are the most similar in their mentor-apprentice relationships as both of them embraced their mentors’ teachings as opposed to Arya and Sansa, who modified the “curriculum” to adhere to Stark morals and teachings.

When you look at the whole brood, when they’re ultimately faced with the decision of cloaking or adopting another sigil (as a form of concealment or denial), every single one of them has picked Stark. The only exception would be Theon (who is an honorary Starkling), but even though he donned his Kraken and fought alongside his sister, he still died for the Wolves.

Jon, who was trained by a Bear (and adopted those teachings and integrated them into his Stark-ness), was put into the position of refuting the Wolf sigil only once (although his time with the Wildlings put him in crisis in terms of his Night’s Watch oath, it never required him to strip himself of his Stark identity). I’ve discussed before how the death of Rhaegal indicated his inability to adopt a Targaryen identity, but the other part of it is his process of being susceptible to Targ indoctrination via Dany. There was a brief opportunity for Jon to be vulnerable enough to be sucked into the “fire and blood” teachings, but ultimately it just wasn’t there. He refuted Dany as a potential “mentor” for fostering the Targaryen identity, and thus there was no hope of the Dragon developing within Jon.

When Sansa was in King’s Landing, her colour changed to mauve (the melding of Lannister crimson and the blue tones of the North) and the lion began to appear in her costume decisions. Although the lion overtook the wolf in terms of visible sigils, her Northern roots never disappeared, but rather integrated into her Southern influence for strategic cloaking. When she left King’s Landing, Sansa’s clothes began to mimic Littlefinger’s in terms of colouring and cut--her infamous “Dark Sansa” dress integrated feathers into the decor, as Littlefinger’s sigil is the mockingbird. When she escapes Ramsay’s captivity, her dress is grey, and her cloak is unassuming. It’s not until she rides south with Jon to rally the northern houses that she completely reclaims the Stark fashion, and we finally see her don the Direwolf for the first time in the series. (Season 6)

As Arya is in the Riverlands, after escaping King’s Landing in season 1, she’s completely stripped of her Stark and highborn identity. In Braavos, she’s forced to abandon all things Arya Stark, but she can’t part with Needle. She dons the clothing of the House of Black and white and begins her training. In the end, though, she refutes the teachings of her mentor. When given the opportunity to become “no one,” Arya tells Jaqen to fuck right off--”A girl is Arya Stark.” Bran, on the other hand, completely adopts all teachings from the Three Eyed Raven.

This whole thing may seem moot, because I’m ultimately arriving to the point which the character himself has been pushing onto us for the last two seasons and Meera confirmed in season 7–“You died in that cave.” Bran has been saying, “I’m not Bran Stark anymore.”

Some theorists say that Bran has become a vessel for Bloodraven—but book readers know that the “three eyed raven” (at face value) is much closer to a collective conscience. The parallel that I’ve drawn for people in the past is much like an AI, where the singular conscience becomes a node in the collective once it’s integrated into the “system” aka Weirwood net (or, weirwood.net). Bran Stark the individual disappeared once he uploaded to the collective.

This is why I’m having a very hard time being happy for “Bran”—and a very critical issue that I have with his kingship. Because... this isn’t Bran. This is the Three Eyed Raven. We don’t have any information to suggest that the Three Eyed Raven has been particularly ambitious in the past, but it’s now integrated into two high-profile and highly magical bloodlines (Stark and Targaryen.

The narrative also proposes that the Three Eyed Raven has been attuned to the possible timelines, and has been slowly adjusting course to eventually end up in a seat of power. **I’m asserting this based on our understanding from the show, not the books.

The Three Eyed Raven has been saying things to make itself as unassuming and non-threatening as possible, even going so far as to adopt the consciousness of Brandon Stark—who was already paralyzed when the Three Eyed Raven first started appearing to him. We know that the Three Eyed Raven has been appearing in childrens’ dreams for a long time, as it’s stated in the books that the Raven appeared to Euron Greyjoy as a child, but didn’t appear to Bran until after his fall. Was Bran’s disability a deciding factor to him being chosen as the successor?

In Bran’s first raven dream, he sees the corpses of all of the children that “couldn’t fly.” It’s hard to say if these corpses represent physically murdered children, or if they’re more likely to represent a death in the subconscious—the “death” that would leave those people susceptible to madness. Was Euron as a child one of the broken bodies in Bran’s Raven dreams? Moreover, the Raven dreams are very triggering for Bran--the Three Eyed Raven (Three Eyed Crow in the books) is a very sinister entity, and continues to make Bran relive his trauma every time. Bran refers to the Raven dreams as his “falling dreams.”

@sayruq wrote a post, citing book quotes, as to why Tyrion providing the moniker of “Bran the Broken” completely goes against Bran’s character and monumentalizes one of Bran’s greatest sources of internal pain in the books. He laments being “broken.”

My initial thought on the matter was that it was just shitty writing, and the point of it was supposed to illustrate that Bran has reclaimed his identity as a paraplegic—much like Sansa’s dialogue was likely meant to illustrate her reclaiming her identity as a trauma survivor. The more I thought about it,though, the more I pieced together that “Bran the Broken” was a moniker that doesn’t go against Bran’s character because it’s not Bran anymore. It’s the Three Eyed Raven, who doesn’t have the same relationship to the word that was very triggering to Bran Stark.

The Three Eyed Raven has gone to great lengths to make themself seem as innocuous as possible with statements like, “I don’t really want anymore” and “I can never be the Lord of anything,” and integrating with a paraplegic boy. Moreover, before the Battle for Winterfell, the Three Eyed Raven even said that he “didn’t know” if their plan would work, even though we have other reasons to believe that they can see the future. They tipped their hand with the line, “Why do you think I came all this way?” So, yes, in some way, the Three Eyed Raven understood that becoming King was a possible outcome of the Great War, and maneuvered in such a way that they were in the ultimate seat of power.

Allowing the North to secede was likely of little consequence to them because there’s bigger things at play--as demonstrated by the Three Eyed Raven’s preoccupation with finding Drogon.

Putting corrupted people in the seats of power only further drives home the point that the Three Eyed Raven in power bodes ill for the people.

Sam is poorly trained despite being one of the most morally “good” characters on the counsel, and even though he’s shown to have the drive to stand up for what’s right, Sam clearly respects the Three Eyed Raven.

Brienne is also a “morally good” character and she’s the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard—because she broke her oath to Sansa—so she has little say over actual matters of state. But the fact that the Three Eyed Raven was able to convince either Brienne or Sansa to break that oath makes me uncomfortable. Not only do we not know how it happened, but the end result is that Sansa is alone in the North—she doesn’t have a single loyal and true adviser at the beginning of her reign.

Tyrion is not a good person, and will likely be easy to control as Tyrion has also showed great respect for them—even so far as to personally nominate them for King.

Lastly, I’ll refer to the part that bothered me most about the Small Council scene. As Bran is leaving, every member stands at attention and after Tyrion proclaims, “We serve at the pleasure of Bran the Broken...” everyone attempts to synchronize “Long may he reign!” and Tyrion says, “That will improve.” Implying that this proclamation will happen every time the Three Eyed Raven leaves the room. Formality is expected for a monarch, but we didn’t even see that level of regime-quality salute in the presence of Dany as she emerged to be a dictator.

So, yeah, tl;dr I think that Bran adopting the Raven sigil for his kingsguard is way, way more deeply encoded than at first glance.

#game of thrones #got spoilers #asoiaf #got #house stark #starklings #three eyed raven #brynden rivers #bran stark #sansa stark #jon snow #anti daenerys #got meta #my meta #jonsa fam

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novelwritingtrash · 4 years

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When Harry Styles played the O2 Arena in 2018, his fans illuminated the cavernous venue in the colours of the LGBTQ Pride flag. Coordinated by a social media account called The Rainbow Project, each seating block was allocated a different colour, so that when Styles played the song Sweet Creature, an enormous rainbow emerged from the crowd. I was there, and it was pretty magical. But it was also emblematic of how Styles’s fanbase views their idol: as a queer icon.

There’s arguably never been a better time to be an LGBTQ pop star. Acts such as Sam Smith, who came out as non-binary earlier this year, Lil Nas X, the first gay man to have a certified diamond song in America, Halsey, queer boyband Brockhampton, pansexual singer Miley Cyrus and Kim Petras, who is transgender, have all enjoyed an incredible year, bagging the biggest hits of 2019.

Still, when Styles shared Lights Up, the lead single from his forthcoming second solo album Fine Line, there was a collective intake of breath. The song and video - in which he appears shirtless in what looks like a sweaty orgy as both men and women grab at him - was heralded as a “bisexual anthem” by the media and fans on Twitter, despite not really making any explicit or obvious statements about sexuality or the LGBTQ community. Instead, Lights Up was just another example of the queer mythologising that occurs around Harry Styles.

As a member of One Direction, Styles was – aside from Zayn Malik – the group’s most charismatic and enticing member. From his first audition on The X Factor to the band’s disbandment in 2015, the teenager from Cheshire managed to elevate himself and his celebrity swiftly rose to the A list. Helping him along was speculation about his private life: during his tenure in the band he was romantically linked to everyone from Taylor Swift to Kendall Jenner.

But there were two other rumoured relationships that dogged Styles more than the others. The first was his close friendship with radio DJ Nick Grimshaw. Styles and Grimshaw were often photographed together, and there were anodyne showbiz reports about how they even shared a wardrobe.

Inevitably, rumours suggested they were romantically linked. In fact, so prolific was speculation that during an interview with British GQ, Styles was asked point blank if he was in a relationship with Grimshaw (he denied any romantic relationship) and, in a move that upset many One Direction fans, if he was bisexual. “Bisexual? Me?” he responded. “I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I'm not.”

The second, and perhaps most complicated of rumours, was that he and fellow bandmate Louis Tomlinson were in a relationship. Larry Stylinson, as their shipname is known, began life as fan-fiction but mutated into a wild conspiracy theory as certain fans – dubbed Larries – documented glances, gestures, touches, interviews, performances and outfits in an attempt to confirm the romance. Even now, four years after the band went on “hiatus”, videos are still being posted on YouTube in an attempt to confirm that their relationship was real.

For Tomlinson, Larry was fandom gone too far. He has repeatedly rejected the conspiracy. Styles, meanwhile, has never publicly discussed it. In fact, unlike Tomlinson, whose post-1D career trajectory has seen him adopt a loutish form of masculinity indebted to the Gallagher brothers, Styles has largely leant into the speculation surrounding his sexuality. Aside from the GQ interview, Styles has told interviewers that gender is not that important to him when it comes to dating. In 2017 he said that he had never felt the need to label his sexuality, adding: “I don’t feel like it’s something I’ve ever felt like I have to explain about myself.”

Likewise, during his time touring with One Direction, and during his own solo tours, the image of Styles draped with a rainbow flag became ubiquitous. He has also donated money from merchandise sales to LGBTQ charities. His fashion sense, too, subverts gender norms: Styles has long sported womenswear, floral prints, dangly earrings and painted nails.

Nevertheless, Styles’s hesitance to be candid has met with criticism. He has been accused of queer-baiting - or enjoying the benefits of appealing to an LGBTQ fanbase without having any of the difficulties. I’ve written before about how queer artists, who now enjoy greater visibility and are finding mainstream success, have struggled commercially owing to their sexuality or gender identity.

Styles, who is assumed to be a cisgender, heterosexual male, doesn’t carry any of the commercial risk laden upon Troye Sivan, Years and Years or MNEK, who all use same-gender pronouns in their music and are explicitly gay in their videos. His music – with its nods to rock’n’roll, Americana and folk – doesn’t feel very queer, either. Looking at it this way, the queer idolisation of Harry Styles doesn’t feel deserved.

“The thing with Harry Styles is that he often does the bare minimum and gets an out-sized load of credit for it,” says songwriter and record label manager Grace Medford. For Medford, who has worked at Syco and is now part of the team at Xenomania records, Styles’s queer narrative has been projected on him by the media and his fans. “I don't think that he queer-baits, but I don't think he does anywhere near enough to get the response that he does.”

Of course, Styles does not need to explain or be specific about his sexuality. As Medford puts it: “he's well within his rights to live his life how he chooses.” However, he has also created a space for himself in pop that allows him that ambiguity.

It’s a privilege few pop stars have. Last year, Rita Ora was hit with criticism after her song Girls, a collaboration with Charli XCX, Cardi B and Bebe Rexha, was dubbed problematic and accused of performative bisexuality. Even though Ora explicitly sang the lyric “I'm 50-50 and I'm never gonna hide it”, she was lambasted by social media critics, media commentary and even her fellow artists until she was forced to publicly confirm her bisexuality.

But the same was not done to Styles when he performed unreleased song “Medicine” during his world tour. The lyrics have never been confirmed, but the song is said to contain the line: “The boys and the girls are in/ I mess around with him/ And I'm okay with it.” Instead of probing him for clarity or accusing him of performativity, the song was labelled a “bisexual anthem” and praised as “a breakthrough for bisexual music fans”.

Of course, there’s misogyny inherent to such reactions. But there’s also something more layered and complex at play, too. “There's such a dearth of queer people to look up to, especially people at Harry’s level,” posits Medford. “With somebody who is seen as cool and credible and attractive as Harry, part of it is wishful thinking, I think.

“The fact is, he was put together into a boyband on a television show by a Pussycat Doll. And he has rebranded as Mick Jagger’s spiritual successor and sings with Stevie Nicks; he's really done the work there. Part of him doing that work is him stepping back and letting other people create a story for him.”

One only has to look at how Styles’ celebrity manifests itself (cool, fashionable, artistic) in comparison to that of his former bandmates. Liam Payne (this week dubbed by the tabloids as a chart failure) has been a tabloid fixture since his public relationship with Cheryl Cole and relies on countless interviews, photoshoots and even an advertising campaign for Hugo Boss to maintain his fame.

Styles, meanwhile, doesn’t really engage with social media. He also rarely appears in public and carefully chooses what kind of press he does, actively limiting the number of interviews he gives. Styles’s reticence to engage with the media and general public – perhaps a form of self-preservation – has awarded him a rare mystique that few people in the public eye possess.

This enigmatic personal, along with his sexual ambiguity, his support of LGBTQ charities and his gender-fluid approach to fashion, creates the perfect incubation for queer fandom. It also provides a shield against serious accusations of queer-baiting. As Medford argues: “Harry's queer mythology has been presented to and bestowed upon him by queer people whereas other acts feel like they have to actively seek that out.”

Ultimately, the way that Styles navigates his queer fandom doesn’t feel calculated or contrived. For Eli, an 18-year-old from Orlando who grew up with One Direction, seeing Styles “grow into himself” has been important. He suggests that Styles’ queer accessibility has helped to create a safe space for fans. “Watching him on tour dance on stage every night in his frilly outfits, singing about liking boys and girls, waving around pride flags, and even helping a fan come out to her mom, really helped me come to terms with my own sexuality,” he explains.

Vicky, who is 25 and from London, agrees: “To be able to attend his show with my pansexual flag and wave it around and feel so much love and respect - it's an amazing feeling. I'm aware so many queer people can't experience it so I'm very grateful Harry creates these safe spaces through his music and concerts.”

There’s appeal in Styles’s ambiguity, too. Summer Shaud, from Boston, says that Styles’ “giving no f----” approach to sexuality and gender is “inspiring and affirming” for those people who are coming to terms with their own identities or those who live in the middle of sexuality or gender spectrums. “There’s enormous pressure from certain gatekeeping voices within the queer community to perform queerness in an approved, unambiguous way, often coming from people with no substantive understanding of bisexuality or genderfluidity who are still looking to put everyone into a box,” she argues. “Harry’s gender presentation, queer-coding, and refusal to label himself are a defiant rebuke of that “You’re Not Doing It Right” attitude, and that resonates so strongly with queers who aren’t exclusively homosexual or exclusively binary.”

Shaud says that the queer community that has congregated around Styles is another reason she’s so drawn to him. “Seeing how his last tour was such an incredible site of affirmation and belonging for queers is deeply moving to me, and as older queer [Shaud is 41] I’m so grateful that all the young people growing up together with Harry have someone like him to provide that.”

In fact, she argues that there’s a symbiotic relationship between Styles and his queer fans. She cites an interview he gave to Rolling Stone this year in which he said how transformative the tour was for him. “For me the tour was the biggest thing in terms of being more accepting of myself, I think,” Styles shared. “I kept thinking, 'Oh wow, they really want me to be myself. And be out and do it.’”

All of the queer Harry Styles fans I spoke to agreed that it really didn’t matter whether their idol was explicit about his sexuality or not. “It’s weird that people scrutinise people who don’t label [their sexuality] when they have no idea what that person feels like inside or, in Harry’s case, what it’s like to be under the public eye,” argues Valerie, who is 18. “It's an individual choice, not ours,” agrees Vicky.

Ollie, 22 and from Brighton, takes a more rounded view, however: “On one hand, I think that quite simply it isn’t any of anyone else’s business. On the other, if you place yourself in the public eye to the level of fame that he has then you should be prepared to be probed about every minute detail of your personal life, whether you like it or not – you should at least be prepared to be questioned about it.” Still, he says that the good that Styles does is what’s important: “He brings fantastic support and attention to the community, whether he is actively a part of it or not.”

Arguably, the ambiguity and mystery that surrounds Styles only allows more space for queer people to find safety in him and in the fandom.

Still, if fans are expecting a queer coming of age with new album Fine Line, they will be disappointed. Lyrically, he doesn’t venture into new territory, although there are some new musical flares. He also seems like he’s started to distance himself a little from the ambiguity, too. “I’m aware that as a white male, I don’t go through the same things as a lot of the people that come to the shows,” he told Rolling Stone. “I can’t claim that I know what it’s like, because I don’t. So I’m not trying to say, ‘I understand what it’s like.’ I’m just trying to make people feel included and seen.” Having said that, within weeks Styles appeared on Saturday Night Live playing a gay social media manager, using queer slang and even wearing an S&M harness.

And so the cycle of queer mythologising continues, and is likely to continue for the rest of Styles’s career. And maybe things will change and maybe they won’t.

“If you are black, if you are white, if you are gay, if you are straight, if you are transgender — whoever you are, whoever you want to be, I support you,” he said earlier this year. “I love every single one of you.” In a world where LGBTQ rights are threatened and there’s socio-political insecurity, perhaps, for now at least, that’s enough.

#is it enough?#that the privileged cis white man gets to cosplay the gay saviour?

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accidentalharrie · 4 years

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maybe you or one of you followers has access to the telegraph article about Harry "Why does the world want Harry Styles to be gay" I don't know what to think about this headline and I really want to read it but its online only for subscribers

Here you go, Nons. (I hesitate to post this but…)

“The thing with Harry Styles is that he often does the bare minimum and gets an out-sized load of credit for it,” says songwriter and record label manager Grace Medford. For Medford, who has worked at Syco and is now part of the team at Xenomania records, Styles’s queer narrative has been projected on him by the media and his fans. “I don’t think that he queer-baits, but I don’t think he does anywhere near enough to get the response that he does.”

Of course, Styles does not need to explain or be specific about his sexuality. As Medford puts it: “he’s well within his rights to live his life how he chooses.” However, he has also created a space for himself in pop that allows him that ambiguity.

It’s a privilege few pop stars have. Last year, Rita Ora was hit with criticism after her song Girls, a collaboration with Charli XCX, Cardi B and Bebe Rexha, was dubbed problematic and accused of performative bisexuality. Even though Ora explicitly sang the lyric “I’m 50-50 and I’m never gonna hide it”, she was lambasted by social media critics, media commentary and even her fellow artists until she was forced to publicly confirm her bisexuality.

But the same was not done to Styles when he performed unreleased song “Medicine” during his world tour. The lyrics have never been confirmed, but the song is said to contain the line: “The boys and the girls are in/ I mess around with him/ And I’m okay with it.” Instead of probing him for clarity or accusing him of performativity, the song was labelled a “bisexual anthem” and praised as “a breakthrough for bisexual music fans”.

Of course, there’s misogyny inherent to such reactions. But there’s also something more layered and complex at play, too. “There’s such a dearth of queer people to look up to, especially people at Harry’s level,” posits Medford. “With somebody who is seen as cool and credible and attractive as Harry, part of it is wishful thinking, I think.

“The fact is, he was put together into a boyband on a television show by a Pussycat Doll. And he has rebranded as Mick Jagger’s spiritual successor and sings with Stevie Nicks; he’s really done the work there. Part of him doing that work is him stepping back and letting other people create a story for him.”

This enigmatic personal, along with his sexual ambiguity, his support of LGBTQ charities and his gender-fluid approach to fashion, creates the perfect incubation for queer fandom. It also provides a shield against serious accusations of queer-baiting. As Medford argues: “Harry’s queer mythology has been presented to and bestowed upon him by queer people whereas other acts feel like they have to actively seek that out.”

Vicky, who is 25 and from London, agrees: “To be able to attend his show with my pansexual flag and wave it around and feel so much love and respect - it’s an amazing feeling. I’m aware so many queer people can’t experience it so I’m very grateful Harry creates these safe spaces through his music and concerts.”

There’s appeal in Styles’s ambiguity, too. Summer Shaud, from Boston, says that Styles’ “giving no f—-” approach to sexuality and gender is “inspiring and affirming” for those people who are coming to terms with their own identities or those who live in the middle of sexuality or gender spectrums. “There’s enormous pressure from certain gatekeeping voices within the queer community to perform queerness in an approved, unambiguous way, often coming from people with no substantive understanding of bisexuality or genderfluidity who are still looking to put everyone into a box,” she argues. “Harry’s gender presentation, queer-coding, and refusal to label himself are a defiant rebuke of that “You’re Not Doing It Right” attitude, and that resonates so strongly with queers who aren’t exclusively homosexual or exclusively binary.”

In fact, she argues that there’s a symbiotic relationship between Styles and his queer fans. She cites an interview he gave to Rolling Stone this year in which he said how transformative the tour was for him. “For me the tour was the biggest thing in terms of being more accepting of myself, I think,” Styles shared. “I kept thinking, ‘Oh wow, they really want me to be myself. And be out and do it.’”

All of the queer Harry Styles fans I spoke to agreed that it really didn’t matter whether their idol was explicit about his sexuality or not. “It’s weird that people scrutinise people who don’t label [their sexuality] when they have no idea what that person feels like inside or, in Harry’s case, what it’s like to be under the public eye,” argues Valerie, who is 18. “It’s an individual choice, not ours,” agrees Vicky.

Arguably, the ambiguity and mystery that surrounds Styles only allows more space for queer people to find safety in him and in the fandom.

And so the cycle of queer mythologising continues, and is likely to continue for the rest of Styles’s career. And maybe things will change and maybe they won’t.

#I hope it goes without saying that I disagree with a LOT in this article #telegraph #not sure how else to tag this #asks #Anonymous

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artemisegeria · 5 years

Text

Two Kinds of Magic

Title: Two Kinds of Magic

Rating: G

Word count: 5684

Warnings: None

Summary: One year. Wanda was given one year to escape her fate and avoid a marriage she didn’t want. She never expected that attempts to elude her suitors would lead to a life-changing friendship.

A/N: This is my belated contribution to Scarlet Vision Appreciation Day 2019. Since there was no official theme or event, I debated for a while what I was going to write for the occasion. Then, I came across this prompt on Tumblr:

“Story idea: The most wanted woman in town has announced that she’ll only marry the one who can open her front door with the key around her cat’s neck. Many men try to hunt the cat down, chase and trap it, but to no avail, the cat is simply too quick, smart and clever, and always finds a way to evade and avoid them.

You are the first one to figure out the obvious: Do not chase the cat. The cat is befriendable. Get the cat to trust you, to genuinely enjoy your company, and you can hang out with the cat. You may eventually be allowed to touch the cat. The cat will freely let you take the key.

Secondary plot twist: The woman is a shapeshifter. She is the cat.”

I diverged somewhat from the initial prompt, but it provided the inspiration I needed. I hope you all enjoy.

Once upon a time there lived a young woman, who was her father’s pride and joy. Her father was a powerful magician who wished for his daughter to follow in his footsteps, but she and her twin brother were born without magic. So the man spent many years trying to devise a way to imbue them with power. Using ancient forgotten books that he uncovered, he created a stone that would act as a reservoir for ambient magic. After absorbing some of the power that surrounded the land, the stone could be used to give power to anyone the man chose.

He gave the power to both his children. They both took well to it, the boy able to run faster than the eye could see and the girl able to manipulate matter, see people’s thoughts, and alter reality itself. It suited the man that his daughter was the one to receive the greater and subtler abilities. He told no one of what he had done and commanded his children to do the same.

One day tragedy struck. The boy fell ill, his fever ran high, and he was gone within two days. Not even his father’s great magic could save him. His daughter mourned her brother’s loss terribly. The man was sad for a time, but he considered the death of his son a tolerable loss. After all, he still had his daughter, who was the more skilled and a worthier successor.

The man eventually grew tired of his daughter’s grief. He thought it was extravagant, but he held his tongue. Over the years her grief did ease as she grew in stature and her father taught her more about how to use her powers, always reserving his own secrets for himself. When he was not training her, he kept his daughter merely as an ornament in his hall. He was also a cautious man, so he encouraged her to use her gifts only as he saw fit. He always made sure she knew whence her gifts came and that they could be taken away again.

But one day he realized that he could not keep her with him forever. He began to think on how he could best control whom she might marry. Eventually, the solution came to him, and a slow smile spread across his face. He determined that it was time to take advantage of her powers. The only thing that remained was to ensure his daughter’s willing compliance.

One day he gathered all his landed friends and their sons, for he would not see his daughter married to a lesser man. He carefully arranged their seating from largest to smallest plot of land, with himself at the head, to be certain that everyone knew his place. He did not even pay any attention to the workman from the local smithy who was fixing one of the suits of armor that lined his great hall to show what forces he could outfit at need. He commanded his daughter to sit at his side, silent and smiling and wearing her finest dress.

“My friends, you have seen my daughter grow into a beautiful young woman. It is now time for her to be married, but she cannot marry just anyone. I must know that whoever is to wed her is clever and persistent and worthy of her many charms. So I have devised a test. Starting tomorrow, every day for the next year there will be a cat with a key tied to its collar somewhere in the area.” He held up a small box. “Whoever is able to capture the cat, completely unharmed, will receive this box, which contains a treasure far greater than its size, and my daughter’s hand in marriage. If after one year no one succeeds in trapping the cat, my daughter will be free to marry whomever she pleases.” The man only offered that concession because he was confident that one year was sufficient time for one of Wanda��s suitors to catch her.

This suited his daughter, who had equal faith in her wits and her ability to evade capture. She did not like the stares and smiles of the young men on offer. They had all grown up together and she had no desire to wed any of them. But she smiled and smiled to please her father, at least for now. She did start briefly when she met the eyes the workman who was at the edge of the room, but he quickly looked away.

“May the best man win, and remember, no harm is to come to the cat. If a hair on its head is damaged, the deal is forfeit. Now let us eat.” The young men all sought her favor throughout the meal, trying to incline her toward them. They made would-be witty remarks and gave her airy compliments, though none of them had ever tried to get to know her. She bided her time and smiled and smiled. Let them think that she could be won over.

After everyone left, her father told her to rest up for the next day. She complied, excited for the next day. For what her father had not revealed was that the cat he encouraged the young men to capture was Wanda herself. It suited her to obey, for her father never told her where exactly she should wander or for how long. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for to explore beyond the manor’s bounds with her father’s blessing.

The next morning her father reminded Wanda not to let herself be caught too easily, but to allow her suitors to see her cat form from time to time. She nodded, trying to hold back her excitement. She’d never had the luxury of having the whole day to herself. Her father affixed the magical cord that would adjust to her size and a bright silver key to her neck. He spelled it to remain in place for the entire year. When she underwent the familiar shrinking, she allowed herself a moment to adapt to being much lower to the ground. The smells were so much more intense and the colors muted.

Wanda spent the first few days exploring the forest outside the estate. For though she had wanted her freedom for so long, she found that she was shy about going into town. The sight of so many people was terrifying as well as thrilling. The young men had already laid some very obvious traps near her home that she easily avoided. She wondered if any of them had any inkling that the cat they are supposed to trap is the object of their affections. She doubted it.

Every night when she returned, her father seemed both relieved and disappointed, but it was very early. Wanda’s evenings were filled with needlework, music practice, and spinning, for her father would not have her forget her duties as the lady of the house, even though she was occupied during the day.

Over the next few weeks, Wanda began to explore farther afield. Her new vantage point allowed her to easily observe the goings on in the market or the village square from the shadows. She enjoyed the sights and sounds of all manner of people going about their days. When she saw one of her suitors, she backed deeper under an awning or ran the other direction.

On one such day, two of Wanda’s suitors surprised her. They saw her at the same moment and began to run toward her. She cursed the silver key that stood out bright against her dark fur. Fortunately, the men were more concerned with stopping each other from getting to her than apprehending her. She slipped easily between their legs and ran into the first open door she saw, hoping to avoid detection.

Wanda found herself in a small smithy. There was a fire pit built into the wall on one side of the space. The other side held shelves that contained a number of finished dishes, knives, and tools. The room appeared empty, so she let herself breathe for a minute.

Until a figure emerged from a curtain in the back of the shop. Wanda beheld the strangest man that she had ever seen. His skin was a deep red hue, interlaced with shiny silver patterns. She almost forgot that she was still being chased and backed out the door, but the man smiled at her in a friendly fashion. “Hello there.” His voice was slow and measured, just as his footsteps toward her were. Wanda still puffed up her fur and hissed at him, the cat’s instincts sometimes taking over when she was in this form.

The stranger paused. She saw his gaze fall to the key at her throat, but he only said, “I mean you no harm.”

She was still trying to think of what to do next when one of the young men who was hunting her cleared his throat at the door. “You, fellow, have you seen a small black cat come by here. It has a little key around its neck. I’ll see you get a handsome reward.” Wanda had to wonder why her pursuer did not have a more pronounced reaction to the blacksmith.

She prepared to run again when the strange man inevitably gave her away, but he surprised her again. “My apologies, sir, but I have seen no such cat.”

The man’s footsteps had no sooner stomped away before her other would-be suitor was at the door with the same question, also without a notable to reaction to the blacksmith’s strange appearance. The red man gave the same response. The suitor promised to sweeten the reward even more if he kept an eye out for her. “Of course, sir.” He walked away, apparently satisfied, but Wanda could detect the faintest trace of irony in her protector’s voice.

A few minutes later, he stepped outside. When he returned, he said, “Neither of those men are anywhere in sight.”

Wanda considered what to do. She knew that she was taking a risk revealing herself, but she desperately wanted to understand. So she moved deeper into a shadowed alcove at the back of the shop and resumed her usual human shape. The man’s eyes widened as he looked at her, but he was no more surprised than she was. For before her stood a tall man with blond hair and fair skin that she would easily pass over. No sign of red skin or unearthly markings. Though he did look somewhat familiar when she thought about it.

“Why didn’t you give me up to them and collect your reward? Did you know I was human? Why were you talking to me? Who are you really?”

He paused for only a moment before answering, “First, I did not like the look of them, and your mannerisms seemed to indicate that you did not wish to be found.” He ticked off the answers on his fingers. “Second, I did not know that you were human, but animals understand much more than most humans give them credit for. Finally, I am Vision, the blacksmith’s assistant.”

Wanda tried to rephrase her last question. “No, I mean, this is not your true form. Glamours do not work on cats.”

Vision bowed his head. “Ah, I have never had to explain myself to anyone before.” He paused again, raising his head but looking over her shoulder. She tried to catch his eye, for this was something she had experience with, but his gaze remained distant, his body perfectly still and tense.

She cleared her throat until he finally looked her in the eye, his expression set in a tight line. “Neither have I. No one but my father knows what I can do.”

Smiling slightly, Vision said, “I suppose I am in much the same position. My creator is the only one who knows my true identity.”

“Creator?” She did not understand. She knew there was something different about him, but he seemed as much a man as any other.

“Yes,” He paused for a moment, glancing at her before gathering himself, but his explanation flowed smoothly, as if he had practiced the words many times. “I am a construct of elemental magic and metal. Master Stark long wished to create life. His many experiments led to my birth, or creation if you prefer, and I have worked with him ever since.”

“That explains the skin and the disguise.” She was impressed at the seamless appearance of the glamour. He only gave a tight nod.

“Yes.” Vision shifted, just slightly, as if uncertain what she would do next. He glanced toward her and away several times while she tried to absorb what he said. The last time he did so Wanda recognized him.

“Wait! You were there on the day my father made the announcement.”

“Yes.” Guilt clouded his expression. “I suppose I should have told you that when you first transformed.”

She shook her head to deny the need for an apology, but something was bothering her. “Why didn’t you try to catch me yourself? I know the key caught your eye.”

“Well, when I saw you that day, you did not seem enthusiastic about the prospect of your father’s challenge.” His gaze cleared, and his stance relaxed. “I had no wish to force a woman into marriage. When I saw you as the cat today, I felt even more strongly that such a betrothal was unwanted.”

“Oh.” Wanda had little experience with strangers, but somehow she was inclined to believe him. There was no artifice in his gaze, no hesitation in his words.

They fell silent for a time, and it was only when Wanda looked out the shop window that she realized how low the sun is in the sky. “I have to go.” He nodded. She was about to leave when she turned back abruptly. “May I come back tomorrow?”

Vision only blinked at her for a moment. “If you wish.” She smiled and gave him a little wave.

When she returned home for supper, her father asked why she looked so happy. Wanda merely shrugged and replied that it was a beautiful day. Her father was still suspicious but made no protest as she studiously turned to her chores.

The next day she donned her cat form again and traveled toward the blacksmith shop. She only transformed when Vision greeted her and she saw that the shop was empty. “Good morning, Wanda.”

“Good morning.”

They stared at each other for long moments. The awkwardness began to build so much that Wanda was tempted to leave. Vision finally said, “I’m sorry. I am not used to visitors. May I get you something to drink? Do you need anything else?” He smiled tentatively at her, and the look won her over.

“Don’t do anything special on my account. I’ll just sit here and watch you work if that’s alright.”

“By all means.” He gestured to a chair that was set up in the back of the shop.

And so it went. Over the next weeks Wanda’s visits became more and more regular. Sometimes she arrived early in the morning until they finished their lunch. Vision didn’t need to eat, but he took a midday rest and sat with her. Other days she would come in the afternoon and stay until she had to return home at sunset. She would spend the rest of the time exploring the town and the next town over.

The first time the blacksmith entered the shop while Wanda was present he looked slightly surprised, but only smirked and whispered something in Vision’s ear, which was met with a thin-lipped expression and a brief headshake. Vision introduced her to Anthony with a firm look at the latter. Wanda used all her training as her father’s daughter to maintain her polite expression. At least he did not disturb them for the rest of the day. The next day Vision handed her a dress that he had borrowed from the blacksmith’s wife, for even Wanda’s simplest dress was made of the finest threads and fabrics, marking her as nobility.

When three months had passed, Wanda had finished exploring the limits of both of the nearest towns, and the new sights did not match the attraction of watching Vision work quietly and talking to him about everything under the sun. It was still a novelty to have someone genuinely interested in her feelings and opinions. Most of the people she met were only interested in her as a proxy for her father’s favor or her father’s wealth. And then there was her father who was only interested in carrying on his own name and legacy.

It was fortunate that few people she knew ever ventured into the blacksmith’s shop, having servants to run their errands and considering the simple metals beneath them. But occasionally an overgrown boy who knew nothing of war would come in to see the swords on display and dream of glory in battle. Wanda would hide in the back storage room, waiting for them to pass. When Vision signaled that it was safe to come out, she would always find the shop in disarray. She would help to set everything to rights despite Vision’s protests.

One day a farmer came into the shop to have his plough repaired. Vision told him it would be ready in a day or two. An idea struck her that perhaps she and Vision could combine their magics and put their special skills to use. They experimented with infusing their magic into the metal at various stages of heating. Eventually they came to a result that resisted all their attempts to damage it. When the farmer returned, he was very impressed. He offered to pay twice the agreed upon price of two chickens, but Vision refused with a smile.

Word began to spread of their knives that stayed supernaturally sharp, horseshoes that never rusted, and dishes that cleaned easily. There were some townspeople who recognized Wanda from the few occasions she had been outside under her father’s watchful eye. When they saw how nervous she was at the recognition, they pretended not to notice her. They felt for her, and it helped that she and Vision always saved their best pieces for those who could not afford them. The townspeople in turn adopted them as their own and vowed to protect them.

At the six-month mark, Wanda’s father began to grow more frustrated at her suitors’ failure. He wanted them to have to work to win his daughter’s hand, but he thought the task would be complete by now. He vastly overestimated their competence. The men’s traps continued to be laughably easy to evade. Wanda fulfilled her end of the bargain by spending a little time walking around as a cat before heading to the shop and spending the day there.

One day while she was standing beside Vision waiting to add her magic to the knife he was molding, Vision asked, “What are you humming? It’s lovely.” Wanda flushed, glad that she could blame it on the heat of the fire. She had not realized she was humming out loud.

“It’s a lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me and my brother.” During the lunchbreak that day, Wanda found herself telling Vision all about her lost loved ones and her father’s refusal to recognize their deaths or accept her mourning. Vision listened sympathetically, offering her his full attention without any meaningless reassurances, before discussing his own lack of family in turn. Anthony tried, but he was always busy with his family and his next project. Vision was accepted as a part of the household, but he was still separate from them.

After those admissions, Wanda and Vision became even closer. They had no secrets from each other. Wanda told Vision how she had always wished to explore the world, but when she had the opportunity, she ran from it. Vision told Wanda of how he feared that he would never be fully human, how people would shun him if they knew what he truly was. Wanda assured him that, though she could not guarantee anybody else, he would always have her. Vision assured her that there were many types of courage and that the world would be waiting for her when she was ready.

When nine months had passed since the challenge began, Wanda’s father held a ball for all her suitors and their families. Wanda was finding it more and more difficult to tolerate her suitors. They continued to pay no heed to her thoughts and feelings; they made no attempt to learn who she really was. During the dancing, their hands gripped her too tightly and they trod all over her feet.

Wanda felt guilty for complaining so much to Vision, but he only listened attentively before offering her his hand, saying perhaps he could do better. She accepted his offer with bemusement. Close as they were, they seldom made physical contact. He held her delicately as they twirled around the shop. They were soon laughing when they stumbled over a stray tool, paying more attention to each other’s eyes than their surroundings. They righted themselves and continued. One of Vision’s hands held onto hers and the other rested on her upper back. Wanda leaned into him when he smiled fondly at her. It was already half-dark when she left the shop that day, having to run home to avoid her father’s wrath.

The next three months passed far too quickly for Wanda’s liking. She knew there was a chance that her father would renege on his word, though he did take his promises seriously. She did not know what she would do if her father refused to let her out of the estate. Having had a taste of friendship and freedom, she could not go back to being her father’s perfect statue and protégé. Vision distracted her with proposing new uses for her magic. She allowed herself to forget how time was running out and simply enjoy his company and offer her own new projects.

When Wanda entered the shop on the last day of the bargain with her father, she was exuberant. She could barely contain her excitement at the thought of being on the edge of freedom. Vision picked up on her mood, grasping her hands. “What will you do after today?”

“I will marry whoever I please, on my schedule.” She tried not to look directly at Vision as she said it, but her eyes were drawn inexorably toward his small smile. The rest of the day was spent quickly glancing at each other and way, grinning all the while. It was almost like her first day in the shop, but that day the space between them was filled with exhilaration rather than awkwardness. Wanda felt a warm fluttering in her stomach as they sat side by side at lunch. When their hands brushed as they laid out some newly finished nails, they did not pull away from each other.

When it was time for her to leave, Wanda impulsively kissed Vision on the cheek. She giggled at his utter surprise. “See you tomorrow, Vizh.” She barely heard his reply when she skipped out the door, preparing how to tell her father that she had found the man she wanted to marry.

Unfortunately, on that day, Wanda was paying too little attention to her surroundings. She was almost home when she walked directly into her least favorite suitor’s arms. She twisted in his hands, trying to claw and bite at him, but her father was standing at their front gate. He uttered a spell to immobilize Wanda as he congratulated the man who had captured her. He ushered the man inside, telling him to wait in the main hall while he put Wanda in her room. He allowed her to transform back into a human before locking her away in her room.

Wanda considered her options for some time. She knew that she was at risk of angering her father, but she had been so close to freedom. She refused to give it up. Perhaps if she convinced her father how deeply she felt for another, he would have pity on his only child. Past experience of her father would suggest otherwise, but she had to try. If that failed, she would think of more drastic solutions.

Alas, her father would not listen to her pleas. He got along well with the suitor. He felt that the young man would preserve his wealth and his lands, appreciating that he came from an ancient family and would be a worthy father to his future grandchildren. Chaperoning several meetings between Wanda and her future husband, her father cared not at all that he and Wanda did not have anything to talk about, if Wanda could even get a word in between the man’s listing his accomplishments and assets.

Days passed. Wanda soon realized that there was no hope to change her father’s mind. Her father and her future husband spent all their time planning a grand wedding, complete with a golden carriage and over a hundred guests. After her third escape attempt, her father used the stone that he still carried with him until she was officially married to remove her powers. The loss left her instantly cold and weak, but she continued to make new plans.

Meanwhile, Vision worried. At first, he thought that Wanda regretted the affection she had shown him. He had almost thought that she had been talking about him when she said she would marry someone she chose for herself, but perhaps he had been mistaken. No one could truly want to marry him. But word had spread from the servants in Wanda’s household, to whom she was always kind, to the other townspeople that Wanda’s father was holding her against her will and forcing her to marry. One of their most frequent customers told the whole tale to Vision, who resolved to rescue his friend.

Two days before her wedding was to take place, Wanda was pacing her room, trying to think of a solution to get out of her prison. Her father had reinforced the bars on her window and across her door with his own magic. Without her powers, she had no idea how to get through them.

After a time, she collapsed on her bed, having worn herself out with worry and restless movement. A soft humming at her window caused her to open her eyes and sit up. She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Vision? What are you doing here?”

“When you did not come to the shop, I thought you had changed your mind about our meetings.” His gaze dropped until Wanda approached him and touched his arm briefly. He met her eyes directly, sincerity and hope shining out of him. “But I was told that one of your suitors succeeded and you were trapped here. I had to ensure that you were well.”

“I’m not,” Wanda assured him heartily. “I’ve been trying to run away, but my father stole my powers.”

He winced, knowing how much Wanda valued the powers that helped give her some control over her own life. “I am sorry I cannot do anything to give you them back, but I will run away with you.” Wanda smiled her first true smile in days. “I cannot offer you the life you deserve, but I will share whatever I can call my own with you. I will always stand by your side.”

“I don’t want anything more than that.” She looked around her room with slight regret. She wished she had a little more time to pack some of her belongings, but time was of the essence. Her dress was not inconspicuous either. She sighed. She supposed she would have to continue borrowing from Pepper before they left. At least she could be sure of him and their bond. “I’m ready when you are.”

He reached for her hands and clasped them briefly. “Wanda, I-.”

A bright burst of light hitting Vision’s chest cut him off mid-sentence. He immediately fell to the floor, skin going cold and gray when his glamour vanished, wide unseeing eyes becoming white. Wanda cried out and sank down next to him. “Vizh?” She shook his shoulder hopelessly before finally turning to her father. “How could you?” The tears falling thick and fast blurred her vision, but she could glimpse his sneer.

“I’m merely making it easier for you to do your duty.” He looked down and nudged Vision with his foot. “What is this thing anyway?”

“This man’s name is Vision. I love him.” Wanda leaned over him, caressing his cheek with the tips of her fingers. Her tears were still flowing freely, but her father remained unmoved.

“I have warned you before about feeling too deeply. You see? It has brought you nothing but pain. Now get up and compose yourself. We will be rehearsing your wedding ceremony in twenty minutes.”

“No!” Wanda draped herself protectively over Vision’s body. She was not ready to let go yet.

“Yes.” Her father’s voice was firm and implacable. “If you continue to act hysterically, I will stop your tongue until it is time to say your vows. If you even think of causing a scene, I will make your life more miserable than you can imagine.”

He started to levitate Vision’s body away from her, but Wanda still clung to him. In a last move of desperation, she kissed his lips, as she was never able to do in life. At first nothing happened. However, a cry soon tore from her father’s lips. The stone that he so carefully crafted flew from his hands, glowing warmly. Energy began to spill from it. The scarlet tendrils threaded their way between Wanda and Vision, flowing through their mouths and twining around their bodies.

Wanda could feel a surge of power deep within her as the magic ceased its glow. Even more startling was that the stone had nestled itself in Vision’s forehead. A warm wave of crimson was spreading out across his body. Even her father was transfixed by the sight of Vision’s body rising higher, becoming upright with his arms wide open.

Hope was a relatively new emotion for her, but Wanda dared to dream that Vision would open his eyes and recover. When he finally did so, he looked confused for a moment, but floated down to her side, tenderly brushing her tears away. Eventually he rose and lifted Wanda to her feet. Looking down at her with some pure emotion that she was afraid to name, Vision asked, “Shall we?” His gaze was serious, enquiring if she still wished to leave with him, still wished to abandon the only life she’d known.

Wanda beamed at him with no reservation. “We shall.” They had both forgotten about her father until he stepped in front of the window, blocking their path.

“You will not move one inch, young lady.” He moved forward threateningly, but Vision refused to drop her hand. Instead, he tried to angle his body in front of her. But Wanda would not have it. She knew Vision meant well, but with the return of her powers, she would not have anyone push her to the sidelines in the name of protection. She pushed forward, so that they stood shoulder to shoulder. Vision nodded slightly at her and she could feel his acceptance that she had to do this.

“Father, I’m leaving.”

Her father scowled and squared his stance. “I swear I will-.”

“You will do nothing to me.” Red swirled around her fingers. “I’m leaving. Now stand aside. Let your would-be son-in-law inherit for all I care.” She prayed that her father would listen to her for once. Though he had not been a kind man, she did not wish to hurt him. She just wanted to be free. Apparently, her father saw the determination that was burning through her because he did move aside.

Not without one final barb. “I disown you. You will never get one acre of my lands or one coin from my coffers.”

Wanda would mourn the loss of her last family member another time. She steeled her spine and her voice to reply, “You have given me and taken away from me enough. I need nothing from you.” She held onto Vision as he phased them out of her room. She would not look back.

When they were beyond the boundaries of her father’s estate, Vision floated even higher, only the slight glow of the stone illuminating their path. Secure in his arms, Wanda began to relax. She almost didn’t realize that they’d stopped until Vision asked, “What happened back there, Wanda? The last thing I remember is talking to you, and then I was in the air and you were collapsed on the floor.”

“My father hit you with this, and you…died.” She tapped the stone that now resided in his forehead. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you being gone, so I kissed you. The stone gave me back my powers and healed you.”

Though taken aback, Vision smiled at her faintly. “Thank you for saving me.” But his smile fell almost immediately. “Although I cannot help but regret that I missed our first kiss.”

Wanda lifted her hands to his neck, massaging his skin. “Maybe it shouldn’t count since you didn’t feel it.”

“That sounds like a fine idea.” He brushed a strand of her hair, which was floating in the breeze, behind her ear, and his hand lingered, threading through the waves. “Would you care for a second try?”

Wanda pulled Vision’s head down until their lips were a hair’s breadth apart. “Absolutely.” Their second first kiss was everything either of them could have wished for. Wanda and Vision remained together for some time, letting any thoughts about their future fall away below them, their embrace keeping them warm.

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