#i have some vague ideas about him journeying all the way to the plateau and seeing the cloudsong. my original plan w/amos was that | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pokeshippingflashfic · 4 years

Note

Hi! Someone sent this request to mythgirlimagines and I loved what she came up with. Could you come up with something else or expand on her idea please? :) link: mythgirlimagines(.)tumblr(.)com/post/190057630070/hello-could-you-do-some-hurtconfort-for-ash-and

(I went to ask @mythgirlimagines for use/expansion of her headcanons before writing this. Here’s hoping I do it justice for everyone. Not really sure what to expand on but I don’t mind fleshing out the situation in prose. PS: User @nebli suggested the stories Ash tells of his younger!childhood. I’m bad at headcanons so I asked for help.)

You practically bite into your own arm to muffle the deep inhale of brisk late night air as it filters into your lungs, bracing yourself stock still behind a grand oak with easiest access to the stream nearby your group’s campsite.

Your redheaded companion is sitting with her back to you at the edge of the water, unoccasionally sniffling and shoulders heaving in a motion you’re semi-familiar with because, hey, it’s not like you’ve never cried before in your life.

Oh. Misty’s… crying?

That’s… that was new. Or rather, new-ish. You could scarcely remember her shedding a tear or few during the last few years on the road, though you think there was something back in the hidden village where you met Bulbasaur, and then there was the Lavender Tower… (How do you even remember any of that anyway?)

You shake yourself from your reverie, returning to present thought process.

You’d wondered why she was missing from the campsite. And yet you told yourself you were only getting up to use the nearest foliage as your bathroom and not to search for her in the darkness while all other companions (your Pokemon as well as resident caretaker Brock, returned to your group after his temporary departure in the Orange Islands) slept the night peacefully away… but here you are almost ten minutes later after walking obstinately farther than was needed to relieve yourself.

You should have remained wrapped up snug in your sleeping bag.

After all, what are you supposed to do with this? Though you loathe to admit it, you can barely handle Misty’s ire and passion and weird girly personality in any other instance; what are you supposed to do with a Misty who’s crying alone in the middle of the night?

You sigh as faintly as possible, a few memories fluttering to the surface of your consciousness in response to that question.

Misty following you out to the deck of a large cruise liner and begging to know why you look so troubled, offering you rather obvious advice in hindsight… but it sure helped to know she understood.

Misty reminding you that Butterfree is leaving to start a family of his own with his new mate and you’d better take this chance to say your goodbyes while you have it… because that was more important than sulking over losing a friend.

Misty stalking rigidly into your assigned guest room at Indigo Plateau after your loss in the league, strong-arming you out of your brooding state.

Misty appearing over you after your hometown battle with Gary, a faint expression of sympathy flitting across her face before she points out that you’d better get a move on and start your trek to Johto if you don’t want to fall even further behind your childhood rival.

You roll your eyes so intensely in response to all these rather telling signs that you feel a bit dizzy a moment later.

Misty is crying alone in the middle of the night… and you know what you have to do.

But how to go about it? By the grace of all gods, it seems she hasn’t noticed your presence yet (though it’s assumed that she’s rather preoccupied). However the last thing you want is to set her off down the path of righteous fury and end up her victim.

Tsking to yourself, you squint your eyes shut again, brow creased in frustration. You’re thinking too much into this. It’s not like you to dedicate so much time to mollifying Misty of all people.

Instinct takes over and you bungle your way loudly through the foliage, sure to get her attention, making it look like an accident.

“Oh, uh, Misty. Funny running into you here.”

Stellar improvisation from the future number one Pokemon Master in the world.

However if she senses anything amiss in your approach, she doesn’t address it. Perhaps because she busies herself instead with wiping furiously at her splotched red cheeks, hiccuping and doing her utmost to rub the dry red from her eyes.

“I was just going to the bathroom,” you continue, “I didn’t know you were up too.”

Despite knowing your best option is to play innocent bystander… a twinging pierce briefly tugs in your chest over the thought of lying to her. But there’s no time to dwell, nope, gotta dig in whether she catches on or not.

“So anyway… Uh, is something wrong?” Yep, that sounded natural. Well, it’s not that it didn’t but you are suddenly overtly aware that you’ve never honestly asked this question of her since the start of your journey together. Instead the question was always a condescending rebuff in the middle of a fight.

Lips pursed, gaze averted, “… Of course not, Mr. Pokemon Master,” she responds in a brusque yet weak murmur. It’s not the least bit convincing. Well, you weren’t exactly expecting the confrontation to be a cakewalk…

Your initial approach had been sudden - element of surprise enough to distract her from her potential mortifying rage at being discovered in so compromising a demeanor. Over the past minute or so, you’ve cautiously edged yourself across the clearing, eventually coming to a stop just behind her before easing yourself into a sitting position at her side.

Welp… here you both are, you couldn’t help thinking warily, fingers drumming softly against your own knees, waiting for something to give.

Oh, and give something did as the redheaded girl beside you, in a much too far removed reaction compared to her previous attempt at concealing her despondence, suddenly leans forward, presses her rather wet and beet-colored face into your neck, one hand curling loosely around the hem of your sleeve to keep you there as she releases a sharp bawl.

Whoa, wait, mayday! you shriek internally, eyes wide and scalp and ears flushing uncomfortably hot. Alarms are ringing in uproarious, disorienting fashion and the panic sets in so instantaneous and intense that it’s enough to make you feel positively ill.

This doesn’t happen. This has never happened before between you two! What’s she thinking? What’re you supposed to do?!

It’s life or death, you know, as your instincts kick in, the hand closest to her reaching up and brushing the back of her neck, grasping her opposing shoulder and pulling her ever so slightly closer to you while she continues weeping.

It’s hard to tell if this is the right move or not. True, Misty hasn’t made any negative maneuver against you but she also hasn’t given you any signal that her mood is improving. Doing your best to smother your impatience, you internally count the seconds, minutes as they pass, staring vaguely into the dimly lit distance while the teenage girl beside you carries on grossly using your sleeve as her new personal tissue.

Ick, the thought crosses your mind before you push it aside and barrel forward, unable to take the awkward tension anymore… But what to do about it?

“Ya know, when I was a kid,” there’s a brief pause when, bless her, Misty offers a skeptical glance between sniffles, “Uh, a younger kid, Gary and I were racing around the outskirts of Pallet and I tripped over him and landed in this lake nearby. There was a school of Magikarp swimming by and one of ‘em stopped to slap me in the face with its tail ‘cause I disrupted their formation.”

Despite her gloom, you hear a distinct snort in response to your story. Feeling invigorated by your success, you continue with your distracting babble. At the same time you bide your time coming up with your next contribution. You want to help her but you also don’t wanna offer her any ammunition she can use for blackmail later on.

“Once, there was this time when my mom was super busy with work and I was worried she was gonna get sick so I tried to make her some homemade juice using fruits and veggies from our garden. It, uh… I wasn’t paying attention and it ended up all over the kitchen,” you finish rather lamely, wistful as the memory came to mind.

This time you’re rewarded with a faint, faltering giggle. It impresses you just how much making someone - Misty - feel a little better can fill you with so much pride.

Still, though the actual crying begins to subside, her features are contorted with a sense of mourning.

“So…” you try again apprehensively, “are ya ever gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

She stiffens, shrugging then shaking her head. A fleeting question crosses your mind. What’s more important; your curiosity over what may have happened or the intent of encouraging a friend when they’re feeling low…?

Of course, you know the answer in a heartbeat.

“Okay well… are you ok - uh, will you be okay?”

A pause, one final brush between her face and your sleeve before she pulls a few inches away with a sigh.

“Nngh, yeah… I’ll be… I’m better now. I mean, not one hundred percent,” she elaborates at the sight of your raised brow, “but better than I was b - before you came along.” She finishes her statement with her facial features arranged in a complicated expression.

“I guess I should thank you, Ash.” And, unable to help herself, she adds, “Who woulda known you’d be good company in an emotional crisis?”

Ah, well if she can throw out a line like that then she must be telling the truth.

“Well, you know…” you reply almost bashfully, puffing up your chest before sobering up. “But I’m glad… that you’re okay. So wait, I guess you’re heading back to bed now?”

“Oh, um…” She appears slightly troubled over such a probing suggestion, buying time, focusing on wiping her cheeks dry. “I still feel a little restless. I’ll probably just stay here and stare out at the water. You know how much I love this kinda view.”

“Then I’ll stay too,” you reply automatically, so much so that your eyes widen, shocked at what your mouth had decided to commit you to without conscious thought. “I mean... if that’s okay.”

She blinks, gaze never leaving your person, though she moves her cursory glance up and down as if checking for remorse or bad intentions behind your offer. And yet, notwithstanding your awe, you find you don’t regret your decision. Finally her survey softens and, taking things a step further, she resituates herself so that she can rest her head against your shoulder again.

The initially jarring predicament lulls into acceptance. You find that you rather like don’t mind relaxing with Misty in such close proximity, especially when she’s in a good mood though, in retrospect, you wouldn’t mind it if she wasn’t either, provided you were in the process of helping her.

You won’t talk about it tomorrow but you also quite enjoy the way your arms bump together before she laces her fingers with your own, spending the final twenty or so minutes of your time together wordlessly holding hands.

Some say love is truest when you know as much as you can about the other person… but on this night, in this instance, love is respecting a boundary and offering whatever support you can when it’s needed despite your ignorance.

(Yeah, by the time the two of them do head back to the campsite, Ash is practically ready to wet himself. Lol. And, as a reminder, this blog is currently - and always but definitely currently since I’m trying to get back into writing - accepting new requests via ask! Please view the rules and FAQ as needed!)

#pokeshipping #flash fic #fanfiction #aaml #ash x misty #requests #word count: 1917 #nebli

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missvalerietanner · 5 years

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tagged by @jmhwriterblog and yeah, ‘course I’m gonna do writing stuff ;p

Rules: Answer the questions and then tag as many writers as there are questions answered (or as many as you can) to spread the positivity! Even if these questions are not explicitly brought up in the novel, they are still good to keep in mind when writing.

FIRST LOOK

(using The Seven Kings, ‘cause that’s what I’m wrapped up in right now)

1. Describe your novel in 1-2 sentences (elevator pitch)

The brutal assassination of a king sparks the partnership between a hated half-breed hungry for revenge and a well-educated prince whose father arranged said assassination.

2. How long do you plan for your novel to be? (Is it a novella, single book, book series, etc.)

Editing the first book right now. Still need to finish its ending. And I was so excited, I might have already started to write the sequel... ‘bout two solid chapters in so far. AND there’s enough happening that it’d probably be a trilogy.

3. What is your novel’s aesthetic?

I... suck at this question every time I see it.

I guess... I’mma have to go with redemption.

4. What other stories inspire your novel?

Legend of Zelda for sure, mainly inspiration for the diverse kingdoms and people. And then, I dunno, there’s probably a little bit of every fantasy movie and book I’ve ever seen/read tucked in this story somewhere.

5. Share 3+ images that give a feel for your novel

clicky - takes you to WeHeartIt

MAIN CHARACTER

6. Who is your protagonist?

Valerie Tanner and Eli Orphesis (named him during my Greek obsession)

7. Who is their closest ally?

They gain several throughout the story, but the main two are Roderick, a rancher and old friend of Valerie’s (practically a second father to her), and Elyn, one of the queen’s handmaidens who joins them on their journey. Oh and then Aaron pops up later, and he’s an old ally of Valerie’s as well.

8. Who is their enemy?

Mainly: Darrean Orphesis (yep, Eli’s dad)

9. What do they want more than anything?

Valerie wants revenge for Garrett’s death, and Eli wants to forge a path to his own future, a future not doomed to exist in the shadow of his father.

10. Why can’t they have it?

Valerie: gaining revenge changes nothing; Garrett’s still dead, and she’s still an outsider

Eli: he has to grow up and learn who he is without his father’s title protecting him, and there are a LOT of tough lessons on the road ahead for my boy.

11. What do they wrongly believe about themselves?

Valerie believes she’s completely alone and useless. She believes her life is worth little, and that spending her life in service to better people/better men is the best she can do.

Eli ... is pretty arrogant, so his are kinda negative. He believes he’s untouchable, that he’s immune to certain feelings (like pity and loss). He thinks he has all the answers.

12. Draw your protagonist! (Or share a description)

Valerie: 28, 5′8″ (172 CM), weighs 135 pounds (yes, I did), lean and muscular, smaller-than-average bust size, wavy brown hair that ends between her shoulder blades, deep/dark brown eyes, Caucasian, Ossa tattoo on her upper left arm (all black ink), muscular stomach, narrow hips, fit legs, covered in old/faded scars from battle and/or training, wears: black trousers that fit tight, knee-high boots, a fit undershirt to keep the girls pinned down and covered (;p), and a loose white overshirt to keep her cool.

Eli: ~26, 6′2″ (188 CM - people of his race are tall as fuck), blue skin (similar to Oxford blue but a hair lighter), black hair that is a bit shorter than shoulder-length and he keeps it in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck (sexy!), bright golden eyes, muscular and well-built, hands lack callouses (only trained, never fought), no scars or wounds, wears proper royal clothes like a prince should (tunic, trousers, knee-high boots, waistcoat, the works)

PLOT POINTS

13. What is the internal conflict?

Learning to accept help, realizing that people are more than their pasts or their titles and especially their race

14. What is the external conflict?

A power-hungry king and his massive army of well-trained, well-armed soldiers who are all purebloods, so they all have magical abilities.

15. What is the worst thing that could happen to your protagonist?

For Valerie, losing the people she loves who she tries to protect. She’s watched so many die. She tends to be pretty self-sacrificing because she’d rather jump in harm’s way and die if it means saving someone else. (She has some self-esteem issues as well, so wanting to be someone’s shield makes her feel useful, and therefore, good. She also values others’ lives over her own.)

For Eli... Failure’s a big one for him. He’s probably afraid to die, but I’d say failing and letting down those around him is worse. His mother went to great lengths to make sure he was cultured and well-educated, so with all his knowledge, if he fails, yeah, that’d probably be what would crush him more than anything.

16. What secret will be revealed that changes the course of the story?

Probably the reveal of Eli’s power. He was never trained as a child like he should’ve been (for reasons!), and so since he’s a pureblood, his powers developed on their own. He’s powerful but uncontrolled, so his abilities start leaking out, so to speak, on their own.

The reveal of what his power actually is, is a good moment. It’s subtle, but as each of the other characters begin to realize just how much power he wields, they also start to realize how REAL everything is becoming: like the war, their chances of survival, etc.

17. Do you know how it ends?

Yes. I know the jist. I know what I’m aiming for. How I get there, I dunno, and what’s said or done when we get there, I dunno.

I know which port I want to dock in. Just not what it looks like.

(I swear I am not drinking.)

BITS AND BOBS

18. What is the theme?

Hmm... unity for sure, redemption’s a big one, some focus on equality, but I’d say mostly it’s about people finding their place in the world by following their own intuitions rather than falling into the role provided for them or forced upon them.

[cue Disney music]

19. What is a reoccurring symbol?

Valerie has a tattoo on her upper left arm that marks her as a member of Ossa, so basically an outsider. After what happens in the opening chapters, she keeps the tattoo hidden whenever possible. But its meaning causes some tension with... basically everyone she meets.

...there’s probably others, but I can’t think of any that don’t require a lot of explaining... and I was pretty vague on the tattoo for reasons.

20. Where is the story set? (Share a description)

In the country of Nubrya (hate the name, can’t find one yet to replace it). It’s the border country on a massive continent and is encircled by three (possibly four or five... haven’t finished plotting the map) other countries to its east, west, and north. The south of Nubrya is open to the water. Its eastern edge rises into steep cliffs overlooking coves dug into the mountain side to house the nation’s ships during the winter. The western border levels off into desert. The north is rocky terrain, isolated, and sitting on a raised plateau, so every step from the heart of Nubrya upward is a hike. And to the northeast, there is a massive mountain range, upon which one of the Seven Kingdoms sits. And to the east/southeast (before the cliffs) are the farms and vineyards of the country.

Every type of landscape and temperature zone and climate is represented.

21. Do you have any images or scenes in your mind already?

Since the first book’s finished except for a few scenes and the final fight leading up to the already-written ending, most of the scenes are already down on paper. The second book, however, oh, boy! I have SO much planned and cannot wait for the willingness to write it down. XD

22. What excited you about this story?

I originally wrote this story back in high school. As you can tell by my username, I’ve kept the characters with me through the years. :] Recently (meaning last year, I think), I got to thinking about the original story from high school (titled: “The Unknown Soldier,” I think), and I missed it. So I dug out the original copy, started reading it, and by about, oh I dunno, page 2, I was ready to hang myself ‘cause the writing was THAT BAD.

But the plot was a good one. The characters were half-developed, but they had the potential to be so much better. So I remolded them, fleshed them out, added a ton more characters, revamped the settings, added MORE settings, dumped in a whole bunch of emotional turmoil, updated some names, increased the stakes tenfold, added more magical/fantasy elements, and landed these characters in a MUCH better story.

A lot about the story excites me, but to know I revitalized an old story, pried it off the gurney, and zapped it back to life--a life better than the one it had before--that excites me. :]

23. Tell us about your usual writing method!

Frantic. Messy.

I write scenes as they come to me. Stitch them together later with transitions, and edit to fix any time lapses or to plug in missing information. I do outline, but they look like this:

Guy does this thing. it’s cool, but not too cool. Then girl finds out. And note for later: the girl’s really a guy. OH! And remember by scene five to put in a live rooster or else the whole chicken joke won’t make ANY SENSE. End with badass scene with knives. RESEARCH: knives.

Hey, I just made that up on the spot. Welcome to my brain.

But that’s the basic idea behind what my outlines look like. XD Except, I do usually write my outlines in ALL CAPS and important items are bolded or highlighted. But that’s a minor detail.

Rooster.

...

Thanks for reading if you made it this far.

NOW GO WRITE! (or tag yourself and do this. T’was fun.)

#seek the seven kings #stsk #writings #ask #missvalerietanner #favorite

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xi-wang-bao · 4 years

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Falling and Rising Stars

Haku didn’t remember anything about his life before waking up on the Tenzan Plateau. Vague feelings, flashes, but nothing more than that. With the injuries he had only recently recovered from, he counted it a blessing. Whatever had happened, it was clearly traumatic.

He hadn’t even remembered his name at first, but those taking care of him called him Haku, and it sounded right enough that he continued to go by it. Now that he was healed, able to travel, Haku had decided he would explore. If this world was new to him, he figured it was a good idea to reacquaint himself.

He didn’t travel too far, feeling that it would be safer to stay away from major cities. Yet, in one of the small port towns not too far from the village where he lived, Haku found himself in the most unexpected situation.

Walking through the markets, looking for supplies for the trip back, he found himself colliding with destiny. Or rather, the person meant to be part of his.

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” he declared, helping the young woman to her feet “I should have been paying attention.”

“It’s okay,” she promised, smiling as she looked up at him “I wasn’t paying that much attention, either.”

He watched her, taking in the sight of beautiful black hair and shining black eyes, and could feel his heart start racing.

“That was still quite a spill,” he insisted “my name is Haku.”

“Mine is Ichika,” she replied “it’s nice to meet you, Haku.”

“I can say the same,” Haku smiled, taking in her subtle beauty with clearer eyes “now, please, allow me to make this up to you.”

“Well, if you insist~”

A year passed, with a whirlwind romance that made Haku happier than he’d felt since first waking. Ichika was a truly wonderful woman, patient with his pains and nightmares, and he loved her deeply.

The news, a few months into their romance, that she had gotten pregnant, it both excited and terrified him. Yet he didn’t know why. Though the answer came soon enough, through snippets of memory, and nightmares.

Fire, screams, the deep and painful ache of loss. The shouting of ‘big brother’ through the roar of flames, the terror of wondering if his family would make it.

Haku didn’t tell Ichika of the contents of his nightmares, only that he’d been having them. He couldn’t put the pieces together, yet, but slowly they were coming to the surface.

A name haunted him…Hakuyuu.

Was that him? He’d heard the name Hakuyuu, associated with a recently-dead prince. The deaths of the first and second prince of Kou, along with their father, had been news throughout the continent. Especially given how they had passed.

A fire, an assassination.

Haku knew he needed answers, so he went to the healer who had cared for him when he first woke.

When he entered the small building, he could see that she already knew why he was there.

“You’re regaining your memory, aren’t you, my lord?” she asked, shocking him to silence for a mere moment.

“So, it’s true,” he muttered “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?” she replied “and with the recent attempt on your life, it was better for your sake that you remembered in your own time. If you didn’t remember, you weren’t a threat that needed to be eliminated.”

“And when Ichika and I became involved?” he countered “you didn’t think that, for her sake, I should know?”

“Too much, too soon, and you would have surely been driven mad by the grief,” the healer insisted, eyes shining in sympathy “and with her already precarious pregnancy, the stress would not have been good for her.”

“You had no right to keep this from me, after I recovered,” Hakuyuu declared, gritting his teeth “I have the right to know about my life, my family!”

His family…his brother, his father. He was remembering more and more. The loss of Ren hit the hardest, and not knowing if Hakuryuu was still alive…

It was all too much, and Hakuyuu left in a storm of anger and grief.

As the last few months of her pregnancy came and went, Hakuyuu struggled with his steadily returning memories, and caring for his beloved and their child. Ichika had always been sickly, and the pregnancy was taking its toll.

She had insisted on traveling with him to Akita, to the port city, for supplies for the baby. Hakuyuu had vehemently opposed it, but his love had stood her ground and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, with heavy apprehension, he left with Ichika on the two-day journey.

The clouds in the sky were moving fast, and the storm on the horizon was going to hit soon. He saw an abandoned hut in the distance, and knew they would need to take shelter. When they reached it, the sky was nearly black, and Hakuyuu took care to start a fire and make sure Ichika was comfortable.

Though the comfort didn’t last long. Soon, her pain began, and he could see the blood. Though she was near her time, he knew that blood wasn’t a good thing.

There was no way he could find a healer, especially in the storm raging outside, so with fear in his heart but away from his tone and expression, Hakuyuu did his best.

“Almost there!” He encouraged, seeing the head of their baby as the labor neared it’s end “they’re almost here. One more!”

With one last, big push, their child was brought into the world, just as the storm outside ended.

“You did it!” Hakuyuu smiled, cutting the umbilical cord and cleaning their daughter as best he could, before putting her in Ichika’s arms “she’s beautiful, my love.”

“She is.” Ichika nodded, smiling tiredly, before nearly falling over.

“Blossom?” Hakuyuu caught her, looking worried, before seeing the situation with terrified eyes. She was bleeding out…

“No time to find a healer,” she muttered, looking up to him “take her…hold our daughter, Hakuyuu.”

“You knew?” he watched her, holding her in one arm and supporting their daughter in her arms with his other arm “after all this time?”

“I had seen you before,” she replied, smiling tiredly “a few years before the fire. I knew your face anywhere, even with your scars. Yet…when I learned you remembered none of it…I didn’t want you to get hurt…especially after you started…remembering…”

“I wanted to keep you safe,” Hakuyuu declared, voice wavering as tears fell from his eyes “I love you. I didn’t want you or our child to get hurt…”

“I always knew I would die young,” Ichika muttered, smiling up at him as she took some deep breaths to try and stay awake “but to die in the arms of the man I love, seeing the child we brought into the world…it is more than I could have hoped for.”

“I’m sorry,” he held her tight, feeling her life already slipping “I wish we had more time…”

“I’ll be watching over you,” she promised “both of you…keep her safe, and go home. Take her to the family you two have left…I know you’ll become strong, to protect her.”

“I will,” he nodded, trying to sound firm, though his voice shook “I’ll protect her with my life.”

“I love you…my dashing hero…” Ichika declared, smiling as her eyes slipped closed. He could feel her body grow heavy, feel how empty it seemed.

“I love you…my eternal blossom…” he whispered, unable to keep in his cries. Holding her body close, supporting their daughter, Hakuyuu let his grief consume him.

The night their daughter came into the world, he was robbed of the only woman he’d ever loved.

It seemed fate was cruel, to his family. Why did it have to happen this way?

It felt like hours, and mere moments, before his tears dried up. Nothing left. Taking their daughter into his arms, he laid Ichika down, watching her peaceful face.

He would burn her body come morning, as she’d asked when he’d learned of her frail health. Let her travel on the wind, see the world still.

Walking outside into the night, his newborn daughter bundled in his cloak and held close to his chest, Hakuyuu watched the skies. Clear now, and full of stars.

Looking down at her peaceful face staring back at him, she reminded him so much of Hakuren.

“I’m making you a promise, little one,” he whispered, voice hoarse as his blue eyes met her dark ones “I’m going to protect you, keep you safe. You’ll meet your family, and I’ll make sure you want for nothing, my little star…”

Star…with that nickname, he knew her name.

“My little lotus star, my Rensying.”

#drabble #my writing #AND THE PAIN TRAIN CONTINUES

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concussed-to-pieces · 7 years

Text

The Lost One

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: N/A, Leakee-centric.

Rating: Holy shit this is actually pretty tame tbh.

AN: Thirsty Crew, I have taken a step back from the thirst in the spirit of the season! This was written for the 31 Little Wrestling Fics Challenge, put forth by @fan-fiction-galore and @thewriterformerlytaggedas! Writing using actual prompts was a bit of a challenge, but I had a lot of fun and I hope that I've put forth something that will please the wrasslin' gods! Tagging @toxiicpop, @oraclegazes and @hardcorewwetrash (even if this is lacking in the thirst department and I don't know whether these tags will actually work because of my laptop so...an attempt was made).

The prompts I picked are as follows: “Are you afraid?” “No.” “Okay good.”, A lone house atop a quiet hill., The storm of the century and the power goes out., and Siren's song. Enjoy!

(Oh also here's a moodboard for it because I felt like it.)

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For vivid descriptions of dangerous weather/hurricanes. I know that may be an issue for some folks due to recent tragedies. Stay safe!]

The weather was getting worse. He knew most people would be worried. But then again, most people weren’t like him.

Leakee gripped the lighthouse railing, staring out at the choppy sea far below. The wind plucked sharply at his clothes. Instead of alarming he found it comforting, like the caress of an old friend. He knew soon the bad weather would drive everyone else on the island inside. But he intended to remain where he was.

Leakee couldn’t put an exact date on when he’d come here. The older locals said he’d always been here, a few claimed that he guarded the island from greater harm. Leakee had to snort at that. If anything, his presence ensured more chaos in the water and skies.

Hardly anyone questioned his arrival, and no one contested his claim to the lighthouse lands. The long-dormant beacon had abruptly begun to spin again mere days after his appearance, when he had finally found the strength to claw his way up the cliff face to the plateau far above. The tiny shack beside the lighthouse had been structurally unsound and ravaged by the elements, but with time (years and years and years) and plenty of wreckage Leakee had turned it into his home. Now it sported a thick layer of bittersweet vines that masked his haphazard repair work.

All storms were good storms to him, and the bigger the better. He felt less like a failure and more like he was home when the lost winds sought him out, when the storms rose from the deep ocean to find him.

Leakee turned his face up, feeling the first raindrops start to land.

…

The summer had been dry, unnaturally so. Leakee started looking out for weather systems, his eyes peeled for just a few clouds. The island turned yellow with the need for water. At this point even if they did get rain, it might be too late. One spark was all it would take so he was careful, so careful.

Leakee took to pacing on the lighthouse scaffold for hours, constantly scanning the horizon. He wasn’t a protector or anything of the sort; he laughed at the idea. This island had no ties to anything or anyone. But they needed rain. Whether he cared or not was irrelevant, the information was there.

He’d had an ache behind his eyes and in his shoulder for most of the day, feeling the pressure systems changing in the air. Leakee knew a storm was coming, a large one. Earlier reports had said it might be a hurricane, but the air didn’t feel right for one. Wasn’t warm enough, the smell was wrong.

So just a supercell with delusions of grandeur.

His hair started to crackle with static as the sun was slowly engulfed in clouds. The windows rattled with cantankerous gusts. It knew he was here, had felt his presence and was seeking him out. So be it. He would wait it out, then.

Leakee sat silently at the rickety kitchen table, listening to the old radio hiccup from the distant lightning. He flexed his arm, hating the way the muscle refused to stop twitching and jumping nervously. He finally roused himself from his thoughts, pushing his chair back from the table. Static shot from his fingertips to the door handle when he reached for it and Leakee grimaced, deciding that he had stalled long enough. Obviously it was time to get ready.

Leakee wrapped his hair up into a bun at the nape of his neck. He didn’t really know why he bothered, odds were good that he’d be down another hair tie before the night was over. Oh well. He shook his head and closed the door behind him.

It was quiet at the top of the cliff, aside from when the winds whipped. The waves were nothing but a dull roar against the rocky beach far below, and the gulls circled with raspy cries that had become familiar, almost comforting.

There was a well-worn path over the stones of the nearly-sheer cliff face and it was on this path that Leakee carefully made his way down to the tiny patch of rocky beach at the base of the cliff. The wind continued to alternate between pulling at his shorts and playing through his hair, confirming his theory that this was no hurricane. Just a lost supercell.

The water was cold. Of course it was. Leakee grumbled to himself as he struck out towards the open ocean, cutting through the choppy waves easily. He felt the drag of the currents, the confusion in the water as the gale intensified around him.

Leakee rose out of the ocean and roared to the storm. Lightning greeted him like an old friend, crackling along his body and warming his limbs in the chilly water. Thunder rolled a reply as he lunged from the waves and Leakee found himself in the heart of the lost storm.

Clouds filled his hands with their messy embrace and Leakee carefully slowed them, easing them together so they didn’t crash. “You’re lost.” A distraught flash of lightning zapped through the air and he caught it, soothing it back into a trembling line that played over his fingers. “It’s alright. You'll scare them like this, though. I’ll lead you inland. There’s a lake where you're needed.” Leakee had toyed with the idea of dragging clouds in on his own. But he was sure that might garner him some unwanted attention. This couldn't be the only place affected by the lack of rain. Lost storms were one thing, it might be an entirely different situation if he started outright collecting clouds to make his own weather.

The lightning continued to shiver in his grip, already so tired from its journey. Thunder rumbled a threat and Leakee pulled his own lightning forward, the fresh energy dancing and popping wildly across his arms. “Listen. You will go where I say or I’ll crush you into the water and drown you. Think of the wasted potential.” He growled. “You’re the stranger here. Don’t push your luck.” It wasn’t uncommon for him to have to coax a storm into being reasonable, and it seemed like tonight was no different.

…

The oceans were a place where the veil thinned. Where myth and reality melded, phenomena was explained by being left unexplained.

Leakee had hazy memories of being a force of nature. Needless to say, it was…humbling to not even be able to make a cloud on his own.

He used to be much bigger, easily creating storms, capsizing ships and wreaking havoc on the ocean to keep men’s greed in check. He had been known to wander inland and strike indiscriminately as well, but the open water always called him.

Something had happened, someone had happened and he’d woken up clinging to a piece of wreckage, terrifyingly small and feeble. His body (a real body!) shivered and struggled in the cold water but he doggedly made his way to the shallows. High, jagged boulders surrounded him, the waterlogged remains of a once-proud ship of men continuing to surface as he floundered to shore.

The rocks beneath his feet were smooth and slippery with seaweed. There was a confusion in the water, the loss of drive that his beautiful storm had possessed. Leakee collapsed onto his side, not used to this level of exhaustion from such a simple task. His shoulder started to ache and he looked over, watching dully as black lines slowly oozed into the skin in a crisscross pattern.

He’d been bound, then. Poorly, sloppily, but still.

He wondered who had done it, sometimes. His memory wasn’t the most...reliable. He could vaguely recall searing hordes of men to ashes when his lightning skipped over fields. Setting sails aflame and striking planes from the skies. It could have been anyone, really. The vengeful wife of a fisherman, a soldier who read too much.

A creature of turmoil by design, Leakee had always been drawn to battles. Give the writers something to write about, the roar of thunder and the howl of the wind and the flash! of his silent, devastating lightning cracking the sky while the tiny humans squabbled with one another.

Leakee shook his hair out of his eyes, crossing his arms on the railing. The binding mark only covered his shoulder, obviously amateur, human work, but he could still feel the hitch and drain of it when he overstretched his limits. It’s a pity, he thought as he flexed his fingers. Not because he believed he was more helpful at full strength, but it had certainly made things easier. He would always chuckle at the idea of being a protector. This island had ties to nothing and no one. Even its lighthouse had been abandoned, and the only people stubborn enough to stay surely needed no protection, especially not from a humbled failure like himself.

…

This was a hurricane. Leakee’s whole body practically itched with energy, the normally-black marking on his shoulder edged with a hazy, flickering glow as the lightning strained its bonds.

Hurricanes didn’t listen, and they were rarely controllable. Leakee recalled his previous attempt with a wince.

There was something else, though. A high note that kept reaching his ears, an odd, wavering sound in the uniform symphony of the building weather. Like a plea.

It stirred some deadened portion of him, caught his attention almost more than the storm had and Leakee found himself inexplicably restless, pacing on the scaffold of the lighthouse as he watched the storm approach. The rain was already coming down in sheets, wind strong enough to shift Leakee’s not-insubstantial body weight.

“So that’s how it is, huh?” The young-appearing man mused. “You’ve been spoiled in open water. This island isn’t so quick to lie down.” The storm paid him no mind and Leakee knew he had a true hurricane on his hands. He shook himself and glared outwards, watching the far-off lightning strike the water over and over. He squinted, unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no. There was a boat out there. Some fishermen hadn’t been paying attention to the weather and now they were right in the thick of it.

Leakee groaned, already turning to walk back down all those lighthouse steps. Of course. He raked his fingers through his hair as he descended, a little startled at how long it had gotten again. There was no end to the marvels of this body.

The water was cold, and angry. It seethed around him, frothing and dragging him carelessly where it wished. Leakee permitted it for the most part, knowing he would only wear himself out if he tried to battle the storm. Waves rolled over and over in an endless, punishing line, unfriendly lightning blasted the skies and the winds shrieked at him.

Who are you? Who are you? The hurricane demanded an answer and Leakee had none, just like before.

He tore himself from the roiling water, bellowing at the storm. “You don't belong here!” Lightning wound over and under his arms, illuminating the area around him.

Who are you?

Clouds smothered him, obscuring his vision. Leakee felt pain burn and shudder through his binding mark as he already fought the boundaries on his power. “You don't belong here!” He shouted again, digging his fingers into the clouds to slow them down. The madcap pace of the hurricane just dragged him along for the ride, rotating on a massive axis around the clear eye.

Who are you?

“I have no answer for you. Let me lead you away from here.” Leakee implored.

There is a boat. She called us to the boat. She called you to the boat.

“Who?” Leakee asked in confusion. The only answer he got was a deafening clap of thunder and he roared back in reply, his eyes crackling white-blue with pent-up energy. “Obey! Listen! You need to leave before you cause more damage!”

We go to the boat. The storm began altering its course, pulling him along like he was a leaf caught in a stiff breeze. We go to the boat, then leave.

“I said listen!” Leakee demanded, his voice booming in the abrupt silence as he tore and scraped at the hurricane, trying to create a gap in the perfect spiral of its clouds. If he could just slow it down that might be enough to cause less harm to the--

The clouds around him dissipated and he plummeted back to the ocean, the cold splash shocking him to his core. The mark on his shoulder hissed and bubbled in the water like a hot kettle as he fought his way to the surface.

He flung himself up out of the water again, coughing violently. He'd been rudely deposited within a short distance of the fishing boat he'd seen from the shore. That sound was more insistent now. Still almost outside the range of his hearing, it had a ringing, terrified pitch that set his skin crawling.

You listen, little fish. The hurricane lessened somewhat in ferocity, tossing the boat back and forth between two rollers like it was playing a game of catch. She called us. You must answer.

When the boat tipped far enough Leakee caught the deck railing, nearly getting his shoulder ripped from its socket as the vessel rolled back to an even keel. It was a miracle the rain alone hadn't drowned the boat, never mind the waves. Leakee shoved the wet hair out of his face and squinted through the torrential downpour.

There was a net attached to a lift at the stern of the craft. Not an uncommon sight, it was a fishing boat. What was uncommon was the fact that it seemed to still be full of their catch from what Leakee could tell. The cabin was ablaze with light and Leakee crouched to avoid being seen through the windows. He crept towards the net, freezing when there was a loud outburst of voices from the cabin beside him. He could hear a radio hissing with static, the sky overhead rumbling in threat before lightning illuminated the deck.

Leakee caught the barest glimpse of smooth navy scales and grasping pale fingers among the hundreds of fish. It was a mermaid, a siren, a mer trapped in the net.

Throwing caution to the wind, he slipped and skidded across the wet deck, nearly sliding past the net in his haste. He reached out and snagged the plastic fibers to keep himself from tumbling off the stern.

She called.

Her green-purple eyes went wide when they met his through her thick curtain of dark hair; she opened her mouth and unleashed a scream that was unnatural.

Leakee felt his eardrums buzz and his jaw shuddered at the frequency. It seemed to sear through his body, bone-deep. Like his thunder but high and sharp, a knife, a weapon, and he suddenly understood that sound was what he had been hearing the whole time the storm built. She had been calling to anything that could hear and the hurricane had answered.

He rumbled in reply, the clouds overhead lighting up. She stopped, cringing back away from him in the net. So she didn’t understand him. Leakee wondered with a touch of fear just how long he had been bound. He used to converse with ones like her easily. They would sing to him in the night, begging his protection, and he would oblige because it was no trouble, it was barely an effort back then to redirect the waves or drown a whaling ship. How long have I been on that island?

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He said slowly in human-speech, the words unfamiliar on his tongue. She hissed at him, baring her teeth. Leakee was hardly surprised. She was cornered right now, not someone to be trifled with by any means. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He repeated, the cables of the net heavy in his hands. He focused his lightning, easing it forward and using his fingers as insulation so it couldn’t dance the way it so desperately wanted to.

The nylon glowed red-hot for a split second and then snapped. One down. She made a noise of fear and Leakee looked up. There was a man, in a rainsuit, staring at him through the pouring rain like he’d seen a ghost. “Are you fucking shitting me?” The guy growled, lurching as the ship rolled underneath him. Why did human-speech always have to sound so coarse?

Leakee roared, the seething sky overhead amplifying the sound tenfold with thunder. Lightning struck the deck, singing along the metal railings and sparking off the lift at the back. The mer in the net whimpered again, this time in panic as the lightning arced over the metal cable of the crane.

But it dissipated when it touched Leakee, the young-appearing man simply flexing his hand. “Are you afraid?” He asked, his voice barely audible over the confusion of the winds. “Do you want to die, son of man?”

“Who the hell are you?!” The man shouted, grabbing the net when the ship pitched violently. He stuck his hand into the net and the mer opened her mouth again. Leakee grimaced, another thunderclap half-drowning her frantic scream as the ship rolled and sent the man floundering to slam up against the cabin.

“They’re not keeping you here.” He tried to soothe her, tried to keep the screaming to a minimum.

“Hurt!” The single word zipped over him, feeling like it opened a raw line in its wake.

“Where?” Leakee asked, working on cutting through the cables a little quicker. She thrust her fingers through the net, making a frenzied noise. Red stained her fingertips. “I know you’re hurt, but where.” Leakee grunted when she shook her head. “Fine. Just hold still.” The last thing he wanted to do was give her the jolt of a lifetime.

This barbaric treatment of mer wasn’t something new, unfortunately. As far back as Leakee could recall in his shattered memory humans had always done this. Accidentally dragging them in with their catch, grubby little mortal hands pawing at the lithe bodies in confusion and delight.

He had become adept at sinking ships for a reason. The wailing cries of those who had lost their brothers and sisters rang out all too often on lonely shoals. He wasn’t really sure whether he had a soul, the wholeness of his being was not something he tended to dwell on, but the sadness of their keening touched some portion of him that refused to stir for even the most desperate of human pleas.

Leakee growled in frustration at the stubborn cables and wrapped his fist around them, gritting his teeth while he focused his lightning even tighter. Molten plastic finally poured over his hand like water as the netting gave way and he shook it off absently, the burning substance hissing where it landed on the wet deck. “Almost there. Hang on.”

She paid him no mind, already trying to wriggle through the small opening.

Leakee caught her wrist. “No.” He said firmly. “You will get hurt, understand?”

“Hurt.” She echoed, those odd green-purple eyes wide as she stared up at him. “H…Help.” She begged.

“I’m trying to, but you need to be still.” Leakee watched in confusion as she rubbed her face against his hand. “Pay attention to him. Tell me if he moves.” He said, pointing at the unconscious human slumped beside the cabin.

She turned back towards the human and Leakee thrust his arm into the hole in the net, ignoring the way the nylon cables sawed at his skin. He gripped the net, stretching it as taut as he could before sucking in a deep breath and tearing through the netting with a fist full of lightning.

She grabbed his hand and he flinched, electrical current still racing through his body. She didn’t seem to care though, tracing the lines in his palm while his muscles stuttered and jumped with energy.

“We need to get you out of here.” Leakee said finally, once he trusted himself to speak again instead of roar with the storm. He moved forward cautiously, wrapping his fingers around the curve of her hip. “Climb up on my back, alright? Put your arms around my neck.” He directed.

She tried to follow his instructions, shuffling closer. The delicate membrane of her fin had been sliced, which explained the blood. Also explained how she had been caught in the first place.

Her fingers dug into his binding mark and he grunted in pain, none-too-gently jerking her hand up higher. “Not there.”

“Hurt?” She asked curiously.

“Yeah. Hurt.”

“Okay.” She murmured, laying her cheek on his shoulder blade. Leakee didn’t reply, just got to his feet and pulled himself over the railing.

…

The swim was exhausting but he didn’t want to risk trying to use the storm’s momentum. The mer was probably a little more conductive than he was.

He felt almost as weak as he had the first time he’d washed up on shore when they finally arrived back at the island. He laid there on the rocky sand while the storm howled over him, feeling the ebb and confusion of it throbbing in his binding mark. The only difference was the weight on his back.

Her stillness worried him after a few minutes and Leakee reached over his shoulder, clumsily patting her hair. “You alright?”

She just clung tighter to him, her face buried in his unmarked shoulder. Leakee shoved himself up onto his knees, glaring at the cliffs in front of him. With how strong the wind was he didn’t dare to risk the climb right now. This area was relatively sheltered, but further up he would definitely be swept away.

The waves beat against the shore mercilessly, taking up even more of the limited space that wasn’t choked with water-carved boulders. He wrapped the mer in his arms, feeling her start to shiver as he hunkered down in the protective hollow of one such boulder. Her tail twitched limply, curling around his legs. “It’s alright.” Leakee murmured, easing his hand down to keep the wounded portion of her tail elevated off the sand. His fragile body had gotten more than a fair share of sand ground into wounds.

Her eyes kept drifting shut while she studied his face, exhaustion obviously dragging at her. Leakee avoided eye contact for the most part, focusing instead on the crashing surf in front of them. It seemed like the storm was lessening but his whole body still felt twitchy, and he was sure if he wasn’t soaked through his hair would have been standing on end from the static lurking under his skin.

A cold hand touched his chest, over where the heart would beat in a regular human. She just continued staring up at him like she was waiting for him to do something. Leakee cleared his throat, settling her more securely against his body. “It’s alright.” He said again. “We have to wait for this to calm down. Once it does, I can help.”

“Help?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” She was trying the words out, probably already working on turning the innocent human-speech sounds into weapons. Leakee shook his head ruefully, digging his feet in to the sand and closing his eyes.

When he stirred hours later she was no longer in his arms. Leakee bolted upright and almost instantly spotted her in the shallows, her slender form draped in the seaweed that the storm had washed ashore. She was wrapping her tail in it while singing quietly to herself. He assumed that must have been what woke him, running a hand through his hair as the odd panic he’d felt receded.

“Hey.” He called, unsure of how he ought to approach her. He wasn't exactly a monolithic entity anymore, she probably thought he was some strange mortal. Some freak.

She rolled over onto her stomach in the shallows, her smile weak. “Help?”

“I can now, yes. I have to climb.” Leakee gestured upwards and her eyes followed, growing wider and wider as she took in the path to the top of the cliffs. “I'll be back.”

She struggled out of the water and onto the beach, reaching out an imploring hand to him. “Help?”

“I need to go up there.” Leakee said, taking her hand after a second. Her skin was chilly to the touch. “Stay here.”

She refused to release his hand though. “Help.” Then, “I can. Help.”

Leakee crouched down. “You don't have any legs.” He pointed out, doing his best to make sure his voice was calm. “You're hurt. You need to stay here.”

“Please.” She shook her head. “Not alone.”

Oh.

“Where's your pod?” Leakee asked gently. Her eyes filled with tears and she rubbed her cheek against his hand, sniffling. “You're lost, were you calling for them?” She nodded silently.

Leakee dragged his free hand through his hair. Lost storms, he could manage. Ease them inland, ring out a few hundred gallons of water and send them on their way. He'd never dealt with a lost mer.

“Look. They won't be able to get to you if you're all the way up there.” He said finally. “I promise I'll come back. Give me an hour, alright?”

She released his hand after a few more minutes of cajoling, her eyes wet with tears as she stared mournfully up at him. “Careful.” She mumbled, folding her arms.

“Don't worry. I'll be back.”

…

It became a daily routine. Shortly after sunrise he would head down to the beach and find her sound asleep in one of the shallow tide pools. A quick touch on the shoulder or head would rouse her from her slumber and she would yawn, then smile up at him. She always seemed happy to see him, which was confusing to Leakee.

She usually caught her own breakfast while Leakee scanned the horizon, only intervening if she tugged on his hand for help with a troublesome crustacean or a too-quick fish. Leakee felt the need to keep a lookout, not just for another storm or her pod, but for the fishing boat as well. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally turn his quiet retreat into some kind of trap for her pod. The thought alone made his lightning crackle and spark fretfully. It was easing in to autumn, storm season, and the waters would only get less hospitable from here on, so he could hope that whoever those men were, they had abandoned hope of reclaiming their netted prize.

She wasn't afraid of his lightning, even when it strained and made his mark glow. She had a habit of just taking his hand because it was the part closest to her and he had been terrified of what might happen if he touched her accidentally when his power fought the binding. So far nothing had happened, but that didn't stop him from worrying.

She also didn't speak much, and Leakee eventually discovered it was out of courtesy towards him that she stayed quiet. “Don't want to hurt.” She had murmured late one evening when he outright asked, running her fingers meditatively over the slowly-healing membrane of her tail. “Too much will hurt.”

She sang every night once he'd climbed the cliff, and Leakee found himself spending his evenings leaning on the railing of the lighthouse, watching the beam play over the water and listening to her plead for the ocean to find her family. It made him ache, no longer in his shoulder but in his chest as she cried out to the moon, the stars and the open water, “help them find me, tell them where I am”. He understood now what she meant when she had said 'too much will hurt'. Listening to her song was the sweetest agony he could imagine.

Even on the stormy nights she sang, as the waves lashed the sand and Leakee tried his hardest to keep the squalls from razing the island. More than once he woke up on the beach to her fingers combing his hair or touching his mark while the sun came up, his feeble body exhausted to the point of dropping right where he was.

She seemed to worry about his mark more than he did. Whenever he sat beside her, her fingers eventually found their way to his shoulder. The area was always a little achy, a little stiff. Like he needed to be reminded that something wasn’t right. Occasionally there was an odd echo from her touch, but he chalked that up as some other strange thing that this fragile body did.

Her tail had healed weeks ago and yet she still stayed, lingering in the pools far below the lighthouse. Leakee couldn't fathom why, but he felt like asking might be rude. He didn't really mind the company anyways.

…

One day he came down and the beach was empty.

He didn't understand. He wasn't sure if he couldn't or if he didn't want to. Leakee ran a hand through his hair, confused. She had just left and for some reason that hurt?

He didn't understand.

That night it was so incredibly, devastatingly quiet. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear nothing but the surf far, far below the lighthouse. He was still pacing the lighthouse walk as the sun rose again and the gulls started to chatter. The beacon slowly ground to a halt, light fading while he headed back down the stairs, but it went unnoticed in Leakee’s distracted state.

When he went to turn on the radio for some noise, it exploded at his touch. Leakee dropped himself into his chair and put his head in his hands, his shoulder twitching and shuddering. Flickers of lightning sparked between his fingers and lanced into his scalp, making his muscles spasm.

He didn't understand.

Creature of turmoil that he was, drawn by nature to conflict, he didn't understand.

The sun was high in the sky when he finally got to his feet and left the house again. Leakee made the climb down to the beach and sat there on the sand, staring out at the water until his eyes hurt from the reflections of light on the water. He closed them for a second, just a minute or two...

The headache was what woke him, an intense pain in his skull. Something had happened. The lighthouse was dark and motionless overhead, no spinning beam to illuminate the storm in front of him. The winds screamed and growled with a mind of their own, lightning blinding and thunder so loud it felt like his ears would ring forever. Further down the coast, the lights of the tiny island town were nowhere to be seen.

Power's out. Leakee realized with a touch of confusion. The lighthouse shouldn't be affected by that, it was powered endlessly by his excess. That was how he kept himself under control for the most part. Something was wrong though, his lightning seared at the mark on his shoulder and the lighthouse was still dead. Thunder bubbled from his throat and the skies echoed his roar, frantic now at the build up of energy in his body. This fragile form he was bound into may not be able to contain him if the lighthouse couldn't absorb the overflow.

The word was on his lips almost before he thought about it and he screamed it into the intensifying weather, “help!”

He felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside out as lightning danced over every inch of his skin. There was no worry for safety or drawing attention now while he struggled to discharge the power quickly enough to keep from being turned to ash. The storm grew even worse, possibly due to his involvement. Leakee slammed his fists into the water, spent energy skipping wildly over the crashing waves.

The song was what tore him out of his frenzied motions, forcing him to pause as the noise reached his ears. He dropped to his knees, legs giving out underneath him. The music was beautiful and he was dimly aware of the fact that he recognized the voice. He didn't know why he was smiling and gritting his teeth at the same time.

A hand touched his chin, pulling it upwards. The mer was back, her eyes full of concern as she sang to him. Leakee finally wept when her fingers slid down over his mark because this was it, this was the end of him. The storm of the century, come to rid the island of its small town and lighthouse once and for all. Maybe he was the protector. And maybe he had just failed again.

The pain was unbearable. He could barely move but he tried to keep curled in on himself, tried to contain the imminent explosion. “Are you afraid?” He gritted out in the voice of storms and skies, thunder slamming in his chest like a heart should.

She stared at him for what felt like an eternity, her song still hanging in the crackling air between them. “No.” She whispered, pressing her forehead to his own.

“Okay. Good.” Leakee replied brokenly in human-speech. “I...missed you.” Her fingers cupped the mark on his shoulder. “Thank you for being here.” He tried to smile again while she wiped the tears off his face. What a strangely human thing for him to do, ignore his own suffering to ease her worries.

“I'm here to help.” She gestured over her shoulder and Leakee struggled to focus, to raise his eyes enough to take in the small pod of other mer watching him warily. “We can help.”

“It's too late for me.” He dug his hands into the sand, his whole body screaming with the pulses of thunder and lightning. “It's too late. Something's gone wrong and I can't...I can't keep up.” He felt like he should apologize, his eyes closing. “I’m…sorry.”

A multitude of cold fingers were abruptly on him, touching the binding mark on his shoulder. Leakee felt an odd twist, a snap! that reverberated through his shoulder as their song rushed over him, into him, flooding him and clearing his head.

“I was coming back. I needed more help.” She said, not in human-speech. Her forehead pressed to his again. “I was coming back for you. I wasn't the lost one.”

The mark on his shoulder shattered like glass when she kissed him.

“You were.”

He was vapor, he was cloud, he was wind and sky and free. Leakee roared and the hurricane quailed, he was one with the tempest after years and years and years of piecemeal, of the binding sapping his true strength. Lightning struck the lighthouse and the windows exploded from the overload, the lantern blazing to life as it rotated once again. His prison, his home. Leakee didn't know whether he should destroy it or leave it be as a reminder of his humbling experience.

The song of the mer reached him, lofty though he was now, and Leakee coasted the pod closer to him on the waves. “What do you want? If it's within my reach, it's yours.” He spoke in the flash of lightning and the growl of thunder and they keened to him, telling him how their numbers dwindled.

Leakee was no protector. Leakee was chaos and storm and as always, he did as he wished. But for the mer who had freed him of his binding, for the one who had moved him with her song...he tossed his head, eyes flashing blue-white with his lightning. “I will keep you safe.”

Her own form glowed with the runoff of his power. She had never feared him, seeming instead to frolic in the deadly radiance of the lightning that struck the water again and again.

His smile was a brief split in the hurricane clouds that the moon shone through.

...

The island was barely missed by the massive autumn storm, meteorologists commenting on how odd it was that two hurricanes within weeks of each other had abruptly about-faced before making landfall on the tiny island. The superstitious muttered that the island's protector must have intervened; the lighthouse was much brighter after that storm on Halloween that had knocked out the power. A few brave eyewitnesses even claimed that the lighthouse had regained power hours before the town, which should have been impossible as the lighthouse had no active power supply and (according to maintenance records) had been out of commission for decades.

Yet it continued to turn, despite the extensive damage an errant bolt of lightning had done to the roof. Never flickering, never faltering, it lit the way home for many a wayward vessel.

And then stories began to circulate. Strange squalls, singing in the night, fishing boats with destroyed nets.

A protector, Leakee was not. He cared very little for being subtle, whipping storms into existence out of clear skies and raging with the voice of a thousand hurricanes at the unjust treatment of his charges. When he was in time, when a mer was released from the nets back into the waters, Leakee’s lightning was fit to split the sky in delight.

But when he was too late, the punishment would not cease until the ship lay in splinters, scattered over the surface of the water. The mer would keen at the loss of their loved one and he would calm the waves around them, guiding them together into the comfort of gentle water and sheltered coves that they might mourn in peace. Leakee grieved with them, his mist and tempests concealing their location until they had safely sung their lost one to eternal rest.

He was a creature of turmoil, drawn by nature to conflict. For the time being, though, for the time of the one who had come back for him...he could play the role.

#31 little wrestling fics #leakee #leakee-centric #thirst party saturday #not really thirsty though #Happy month of halloween #wwe #wrestlers without the wrestling #this was incredibly fun to write #enjoy!#mermaids #nxt #fcw #so much inspiration from american gods you have no idea #seriously go read that book

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apirateslifeforme123 · 7 years

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Awww, you guys! Ok, I am going to answer these in the order of which the fic was written. I feel like there’s a progression here, lol. So, first off, for the lovely @princesspenelopenerfherder on With This Ring, Or Fate Intervenes:

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

I hadn’t written for the POTC genre in a while, and after binging on a bunch of fic old and new Sparrabeth I wanted to try my hand again. I had also been reading a lot of books about pirates at this point, doing some research for an original work that I’m still only 30,000 words into lol, and felt I had a better hold on the historical/nautical aspects than ten years ago when I first was writing for POTC. I read those fics now and literally want to bang my head onto the desk. The book Empire of Blue Water about Henry Morgan definitely inspired a great deal of it.

2: What scene did you first put down?

I had some other vague ideas first, but I think I actually wrote the island scenes first. Was definitely thinking about Jack and Lizzy on that island, lol, the ring exchange, and also my husband was watching a lot of naked and afraid at that point. I think it rubbed off on me haha.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

I guess I don’t have a favorite. I kind of oscillate between third person omniscient and third person limited through out the fic, depending what it felt it needed.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

Oh gosh. I love so many. But Ok, when Jack and Lizzy are in the garden during the ball, and she’s furious and sad because Jack won’t tell her what he’s up to, and she thinks Jack is leaving without her, and he’s trying to assure her that he’s just putting things to rights.

“And which side of the law will you be on?”

“The proper side for a rogue like me, that is to say, the wrong side, though balance will have been restored in a way the law always seems to fall short of.”

5: What part was hardest to write?

It’s always that plateau leading up to the end action that ALWAYS snags me. Always, no matter what fic. I have a complex with finishing things or something, I don’t know.

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

It’s kind of unique in that Jack and Elizabeth have known each other since she was a child in this verse. And also that its set in Morgan’s time, c. 1680ish, as opposed to the canon POTC verse that could be anywhere from 1730-70. Lol. It was also fun to write Jack returning to the fold of society as a privateer. Writing him at dinner with Morgan and the Governor et al was a hoot, and Lizzy kicking him under the table. haha

7: Where did the title come from?

The first vague idea I had of this fic was Jack and Lizzy during the mar-i-age scene in DMC. I was thinking that it would be funny if he tricked her into thinking they were “pirate married” if he gave her one of his cool rings. And somehow, it evolved out into the island instead, and all the rest with it. I had rings on the brain...and the rest sounded like poetry. ;)

8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

LOL and to elaborate on the above, I suppose I was thinking about cool pirate rings because I work in antiques, and sometimes we get those awesome Georgian gold skull rings with the steely rose cut diamonds. JFC they are COOL. I can never afford to keep them tho, so I guess I thought I’d write about it instead. Vicarious collecting, as it were.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Plenty of alternate scenes, I’m sure. I keep a file of scraps and ideas, and it’s always like a graveyard for things that don’t quite make the cut.

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

I know I write a lot of Norribeth too now, but Sparrabeth is my original fav, and I still feel like Sparrabeth was the OTP that really *should* have happened in the movie. The fact that it didn’t was just the worst writing ever. ::glares at T & T::

11: What do you like best about this fic?

I think it was pretty original, and a bit epic, in length at least, lol. I liked the time frame being different, and Jack having sailed with Morgan and getting screwed over by him and Barbossa on one of their raids, rather than the Becket drama as his backstory. I love thinking up different back stories for Jack, there are so many ways he could have turned out the way he is.

12: What do you like least about this fic?

Oh god. The way I skewered James Norrington’s character, it’s sooo OoC. He’s a great antagonist in this one, Jack’s rival and all, but I look back on it now and totally face palm. I confess I really didn’t properly understand him at the time. I hadn’t seen COTBP in a while, and for some reason I remembered James being the one who demanded he make the rescue of Will a wedding present to Elizabeth. Which is so not right, lol, because actually ELIZABETH is the manipulator in that scene. But…so I thought he was the stick in the mud Navy officer who didn’t really see Elizabeth for who she was, though he does truly, twistedly, love her in this fic. It would be interesting to write a version of this in which James isn’t so out of character, it would be waaaay more complicated emotionally. This fic is pretty black and white.

13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

I have all kinds of ridiculous playlists for fics, though I don’t listen to music when I write, only when I’m thinking about a fic, if that makes sense. At this period I suspect the playlist involved Jack Johnson and some Kenny Chesney beach tunes lol. Probably some Jimmy Buffet too…

14: Is there anything you wanted readers to learn from reading this fic?

I guess the thing I want people to take away from all my fics is that girls should be strong and true to themselves, and that a man who truly loves you will never try to make you into something you’re not. Hard won lessons on my part, so maybe someone else’s journey will be less painful for reading this? Or not.

15: What did you learn from writing this fic?

I learned a lot doing research about pirates, the Caribbean at this time, boats and sailing. I’m always learning new things when I write, it’s a good way to explore a subject and really get a proper understanding of it.

#on fic #sparrabeth fic #With This Ring #on writing

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calorieworkouts · 7 years

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How Eating More and Moving Less Helped Me Lose Weight and Change My Life

My name is Julie Fredrickson as well as I am the founder of Minimum Sensible Fitness, a physical fitness and nutrition class created to fit the lifestyle of hectic professionals. I'm also a three-time start-up founder, a powerlifter, as well as an enthusiastic proponent for taking a balanced technique to entrepreneurship.

But I had not been always fit, and I really did not always have the most balanced strategy to my health. When I first tried to transform my life around using diet plan and also fitness, I discovered I was doing it all wrong.

Panic Room

In 2009, when I was 25, I was diagnosed with high cholesterol. My medical professional didn't mince words-- he stated that because I was 20 extra pounds obese as well as had a family record of cardiovascular disease and diabetes, it made feeling for me to take place Lipitor (a frequently recommended statin medicine) promptly. It had not been specifically a bolt from the blue. After several years of staying in New york city, I had become inactive, developed dreadful consuming practices, consumed consistently, and had a host of vague health and wellness issues that left me inactive, scratchy, as well as completely miserable.

Julie Fredrickson, December 2011 After my physician's session, I began taking the prescription, because I understood I needed to do something to improve my wellness. Yet I wasn't actually prepared to take place statin medication (which is usually prescribed to grownups 65 and also older) in my twenties. Rather, I quickly decided to tackle my wellness concerns with great old-fashioned self-control and "treatment" my high cholesterol with nutrition and also exercise. I would simply consume less and also move more-- the classic prescription for weight-loss. I tossed my Lipitor prescription in the trash and also obtained started.

All Work and No Play

My brand-new physical fitness approach was" all or absolutely nothing." I started waking up early to invest 45 mins on the elliptical device prior to job. I additionally enrolled in individual training, attended team health and fitness classes from spinning to yoga, and spent for a meal shipment service that supplied calorically restricted dishes. Everything helped-- I lost some weight as well as my cholesterol degrees enhanced. As well as though I was placing in a lots of work for fairly modest rewards, I felt sanctimonious and proud of my accomplishments. The "eat less, relocate a lot more" concept didn't actually solve my issue. It became a problem.

The 'eat much less, relocate more 'concept didn't actually solve my issue. As a matter of fact, it came to be a problem.

I kept my food intake low throughout the week by consuming only low-calorie foods, yet compensated myself on Fridays with pizza. On Saturdays I pushed (err ... penalized )myself with extended stints on the treadmill. I attempted eating "healthy and balanced" foods like bananas and peanut butter, kale, wonderful potatoes, quinoa, as well as grilled chick bust, but my weight management quickly plateaued, and also I still really did not such as the way I looked. I increased down and also required myself to atone for my" sins" with juice cleanses.

When ravenous cravings (unavoidably) set in, I got damaged down and also ate also much more. It was a savage cycle that continued for over a year. My yo-yo pattern most likely would have proceeded forever if my pal Michael Gruen hadn't pointered in with some wise advice.

Eating 101

Gruen, a fellow entrepreneur and also previous banker, had just recently used up weight training and also slimmed down himself. He did not have stellar fitness credentials, but I trusted his judgment due to the fact that I had actually observed his health and fitness makeover firsthand. He mentioned to me that my" consume much less, move a lot more" viewpoint simply had not been functioning. Amusingly, he recommended that I must try consuming more and also moving less. While I was undoubtedly skeptical, the suggestion stuck.

My previous efforts at health and health and fitness had actually left me with a collection of bad behaviors that I erroneously took into consideration "much healthier. "Because starting my journey, I had relied primarily on ladies' storage locker space chatter as well as mainstream health and fitness publications. According to those resources, the most effective ways to drop weight and also obtain fit were extreme cardio sessions, oat meal for breakfast, tidy foods, and calorie restriction. Considering that those 'tried and real' approaches obviously weren't benefiting me, I started to do my very own research study into nourishment as well as health for the very first time.

One of the initial points I discovered is that fat cells produce an essential hormone called leptin. The body is really delicate to the total amount in blood circulation, so when fat cells diminish( because of caloric limitation), less leptin is secreted. The mind detects this reduction as well as reacts by triggering an increase in hunger as well as a decline in metabolic rate.

By eating much less, I was not only making myself hungrier and reducing my total willpower, I was unintentionally reducing my capability to burn off calories.

By consuming less( during my crash-diet phase), I was not only making myself hungrier and also decreasing my total determination (greetings, Friday night pizza binges ), I was unintentionally decreasing my ability to burn calories. My low leptin degrees indicated I was hungrier than ever. Rather than listening to my body, I compelled myself to do extra workout to burn off the calories, which consequently triggered much more appetite. No marvel I would certainly been spiraling!

I began consuming a lot more protein and fiber-rich veggies( like spinach and also broccoli) at each dish. Much to my shock, eating' much more 'assisted-- I quit really feeling starving at all times, which meant I really did not devour on scrap almost as commonly. It makes good sense, because researches present to that raising healthy protein consumption could reduce the desire to binge on various other( commonly less healthy and balanced) food.

Gaining Weight

As I started to get involved in the behavior of healthier consuming, Gruen urged me to move much less, since, according to him, I was still functioning out way too much. Research recommends that working out for longer periods of time offers little additional advantage when it comes to shedding weight. The body will certainly wind up making up for those added minutes invested at the gym by slowing the metabolic process and stoking cravings. Rather, Gruen advised incorporated lifts like squats, bench presses, and also deadlifts, which could effectively exercise the whole body. Substance lifts could additionally improve endurance, accelerate cardiovascular feature, increase metabolism, reduce coronary danger, and also assist with mental well being.

As an added incentive, striking the weight rack as opposed to the cardio device is a big time-saver. To have adequate time for my morning cardio craze, I needed to cut right into my bedtime. I regularly discovered myself obtaining less compared to 7 hrs of rest to obtain up early adequate to place in time on the treadmill-- I was quite actually running myself rough. This also wasn't doing my body any favors. A recent research study discovered that merely 3 evenings of insufficient sleep( less than seven to 8 hrs )made individuals dramatically less delicate to insulin( Insulin sensitivity can help or prevent maintaining a healthy and balanced weight, given that it influences blood glucose degrees, which in turn control hunger.). With my new weight lifting program, I invested much less time in the health club, even more time in bed asleep, and, incredibly, located myself looking much leaner compared to I carried my previous all-cardio physical fitness regimen.

Healthy forever-- The Takeaway

Julie Fredrickson, September 2013 Offered my busy life, the timeless" move much more, consume much less" was specifically the incorrect strategy to take in regards to physical fitness and also health and wellness. After I allow go of my preconditioned ideas of just what was "healthy and balanced," educated myself about basic nourishment and physical fitness, and also found convenient consuming and also working out approaches, I was lastly able to constantly preserve a habit of health.

This isn't the kind of improvement you see glamorized in the fitness press-- in my instance, it took practically 4 years to find out ways to reach my goals and also maintain my" transformation. "And also while I lost 20 pounds of fat, obtained muscular tissue, as well as obtained my cholesterol back to a healthy location, the real" in the past as well as after" is my mental shift. Because in truth, the only diet plan( or physical fitness weight loss program) that functions is the one you stick with for life.

#exercise #fitness #fitness and nutrition #fitness classes #gym #health #health and fitness #health and wellness #health club #muscle fitness #weight #wellness #workout

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shannaraisles · 7 years

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Her Beacon And Her Shield - Chapter 32

Skyhold was quiet, too quiet.

Despite the constant stream of messages flying back and forth from the rookery, it just didn't feel like home without the ever present sound of the army on the plateau below. But they were still in the Arbor Wilds, mopping up what remained of Corypheus' army. Oh, it had been a great success - they had punched a hole straight to the ancient Temple of Mythal, captured Samson, and denied Corypheus his prize. Only the prize had turned out to be quite different to their initial suspicions. The Temple was set in place to guard something called the Well of Sorrows, the accumulation of knowledge gathered by every high priest of Mythal over countless centuries before the fall of Arlathan. The guardians of the Well had been violently opposed to Morrigan's intention to drink from the Well to prevent Corypheus doing the same. Amelia regretted those deaths deeply. But there had been no time - Corypheus himself had been right on their tail. So close, in fact, that their only escape had been through the eluvian, abandoning their army and allies in the process.

Ever since then, Morrigan had been ... strange. Stranger than usual, that is. She spent hours in the library, poring over ancient elven texts, delighting in her newfound ability to understand the often frustratingly vague language. She had not even emerged when Cullen and the rest of Amelia's inner circle had reached Skyhold, her only contribution to their return the announcement that she had discovered the purpose of Corypheus' dragon. The darkspawn magister was using the creature to store a portion of his essence; they would have to kill the dragon first, if they wanted any hope of killing him. Finding him, that was another problem entirely. Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen all had their available agents and allies working on it, but their resources were limited with so much still bound up in the Wilds.

Still, Skyhold was too quiet. Thus, when Morrigan announced she needed to commune with the spirit of Mythal in a clearing that wasn't too far away, Amelia leapt at the chance to get away from the unfamiliar stillness. Her choice of companions wasn't much of a choice - almost everyone had sustained injuries in the battle for Mythal's Temple. She was left with Cole, Solas, and a very battered Cassandra, since the Iron Bull could not be asked to leave Dorian's side while her cousin convalesced. She had to order Cullen to stay put - he was still shaken by her disappearing act through the eluvian. It took several promises and a firm reminder that he was responsible for Samson before he grudgingly allowed her to go without him.

And here they were. An ancient, forgotten place of worship, less than a week's journey from Skyhold itself. Summer made it shine with life; green grasses and bright flowers lead the way along an ancient pilgrims' path to where broken stone steps rose to the still form of Mythal herself, carved from grey stone and crowned with Grace. What more there might have been was lost to the ravages of time ... here and now, she presided over nothing more than waving grass and open skies.

"What is this?" Amelia asked softly, hesitant to raise her voice in this ancient place. She felt ... almost sad, to know that this had been a place of worship for the elves, before their gods had left them, before their very way of life had been ripped from them.

"'Tis all that remains of the great altar," Morrigan told her, her own tone oddly subdued. But then, given her reverence for all things ancient, perhaps it wasn't so very odd that the witch should approach this place with respect.

"At least it was allowed to go back to nature," Amelia said, running her fingers through the tall grass. "The Imperium didn't destroy it, as they did so much else."

"Indeed." Morrigan mounted the steps, leaning close to the weather stone to read the inscription. "We few who travel far ... call to me and I will come ... without mercy, without fear ..."

"Cry havoc in the moonlight," another voice spoke, and Amelia turned to find Solas gazing up at the down-turned face of Mythal as he recited. "Let the fire of vengeance burn. The cause is clear." He lowered his eyes, smiling a little to find Amelia staring. "A very old invocation," he told her. "Perfectly translated."

"Why, thank you," Morrigan replied sardonically. She and Solas didn't often have polite exchanges, though their relationship was nowhere near as volatile as her enmity with Vivienne.

"Without mercy?" Amelia queried in concern. "That sounds rather ominous."

"Indeed, it does." Morrigan frowned at the inscription a moment longer. "Your companions will need to go elsewhere," she suddenly announced, somewhat arbitrarily.

"I am not leaving the Inquisitor," Cassandra objected instantly. "We have been separated too much these past months. She needs protection."

Morrigan sighed. "You need not go far," she conceded in an impatient tone. "Your Inquisitor is quite safe with me."

"Unless whatever you summon should attack," the Seeker pointed out heatedly. "Or did you forget that you are now bound to obey?"

"If there is shouting, you will hear it readily enough," Morrigan informed her icily. "I cannot perform the summoning with so many in the circle."

"Then Amelia should come with us -"

"I'll be fine, Cassandra," Amelia told her friend gently. "I'm not stupid enough to try and take on Morrigan by myself, much less Morrigan and whatever comes to her summons. Go to the other clearing. I'll scream if I need you."

"Separate and safe," Cole offered from Cassandra's back. "Ancient, warm, wanted. Protected by no one."

"The Inquisitor has plenty of protection -" Cassandra began, but stopped abruptly when Solas held up a hand.

"That isn't what he means, Cassandra," the elven apostate told her. "No one is here, no one is always with her. In this place, no one will protect her."

"That doesn't make any sense, Solas," Amelia pointed out, amused by the odd back and forth between her friends.

He smiled in his mysterious way. "It does, if you think about it," he countered, turning to the other. "Come. Mythal will not answer with so many of us here."

With staff in hand, Solas turned to leave the ritual circle, Cole close at his heels. Cassandra hesitated, but finally acquiesced to Amelia's urging, casting suspicious glances over her shoulder as she went, until she, too, was out of sight. Left alone with Morrigan, Amelia turned to the witch with a faint frown.

"You're sure there's no danger?" she asked, needing to know if she should be ready for violence.

"Not to you, Inquisitor," Morrigan told her, yellow eyes unnervingly calm. "As your pet demon states, you are protected."

"By what, exactly?"

No answer was forthcoming. Morrigan's focus had already turned back to the altar, leaving the identity of this no one a mystery to be solved another time. Amelia stepped to one side, watching as the witch raised her hand, connecting herself to the ancient portrayal of Mythal with a pulsing beam of pure mana.

"You know who I am," Morrigan declared to the being she sought to summon. The arrogance of her tone shocked Amelia; surely a little respect wouldn't go amiss right now. "From high priest to high priest, I am the last to drink of sorrows. Come to us, Mythal. Whatever you are, whatever remains, I invoke your name and your power."

Please, Amelia added in the silence of her own mind, unable to leave the invocation like that, even if her addition was only in thought. We need your help.

For a long moment, all was still in the grove. No breeze blew, no birds sang. Morrigan's invocation had brought down a watchful silence, as though the one she had called on was already present, observing them with unseen eyes. Then the whispers began, voices on the edge of hearing, speaking words Amelia couldn't quite grasp. First one voice, then many, the indecipherable hush rising to an unknowable cacophony as mist formed at the heart of the grove. And from that mist emerged a figure - a woman, white-haired and armored in ancient form, her glowing eyes surveying the two who waited with timeless curiosity. Amelia drew in a sharp breath. She could feel the raw power this being commanded, the Anchor on her hand sparking in some kind of recognition.

And it wasn't the only one who felt a sense of recognition. Morrigan stiffened, hissing with what sounded like fury a single word, laden with venom.

"Mother."

The woman smiled, seemingly delighted with what she found before her. "Now ... isn't this a surprise?"

As Morrigan growled angrily, Amelia laid her hand on the witch's arm. "I take it you know her?" she asked mildly, though quite how Morrigan would know a being who answered to Mythal as mother was more than a little beyond her.

"She is a deceiving witch!" Morrigan spat. She shook Amelia's hand from her arm, gathering her will to strike.

"Now, now, that's quite enough of that," the ancient woman said with calm certainty, apparently unconcerned by her hostile reception.

She raised her own hand, and Amelia once again felt the power in her. She felt the mana being drained from Morrigan at a single gesture. Not all ... just enough to keep the younger witch from attacking. Yet that wasn't all that had happened. Morrigan's very will was suppressed, her arms falling to her sides as something overpowered her wish to do harm.

"What have you done to me?" the witch demanded, fear suddenly dominant in her feline eyes.

"I have done nothing," the woman told her sternly. "You drank from the Well of your own volition."

Comprehension dawned on Amelia at those words. The price of the boon, the price Morrigan had dismissed so readily - an eternity of servitude to ... "Then you are Mythal," she said aloud, just as the same thought occurred to her companion. Where Morrigan bristled, Amelia lowered herself to one knee without a second thought, bowing her head respectfully. "Thank you for coming. I had no idea what to expect."

She who was Mythal smiled again, though her words were for Morrigan. "You see, girl?" she said almost spitefully. "Those are manners, as you require a demonstration."

"And you are quite capable of blasting me into oblivion if I offend you," Amelia pointed out apologetically.

The woman laughed. "Not you," she said cryptically. "You carry protection, beyond the mark on your hand."

More talk of this mysterious protection. Amelia frowned curiously as she rose once more. "I don't understand -"

"I do not understand," Morrigan interrupted, clearly shaken by what was occurring. She glared at the woman she knew as Mother. "How can you be Mythal?"

"Once I was but a woman, crying out in the lonely darkness for justice," came the answer, quietly seething with bitter remembrance. "And she came to me, a wisp of an ancient being, and she granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her."

"Then ... you carry Mythal inside you?" Amelia couldn't help asking, curious as to how it worked. Was she two beings in one form, with one dominant over the other? Or was it more symbiotic than that?

"She is a part of me, no more separate than your child from your womb," the woman told her.

"E-excuse me?" Amelia stared at her, feeling her mind come to a sudden, stuttering halt. What child? Whose womb?

But the ancient woman had already moved on, turning her attention to Morrigan. "You hear the voices of the Well, girl," she pointed out calmly. "What do they say?"

Dragging her mind away from its sudden desire to run in circles screaming and laughing hysterically, Amelia let her eyes find Morrigan. She knew the voices of the Well of Sorrows spoke to the witch - that was how she had known to come here, after all. Would they confirm or deny the claims put before them? For a long moment, Morrigan was still, her eyes closed as she listened to voices only she could hear.

"They ..." Yellow eyes opened, looking on the ancient being in defeat. "They say you speak the truth."

"In all things?" Amelia heard herself ask swiftly. She felt the blood rush from her head at Morrigan's solemn nod. No one will protect you, Solas had said, confirming Cole's assessment. But no one wasn't a spirit or some unknown magic ... no one rested beneath her heart, no more separate than her heart from her chest. No one was with her, and had been for some time, it seemed.

"But what was Mythal?" the woman before them was saying, seeming to need this moment of sharing. "A legend given name and called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning." She stepped closer, one hand reaching out to Amelia. "A herald, indeed," she said mysteriously. "Shouting to the heavens, harbinger of a new age. As for me, I have had many names. But you ... may call me Flemeth."

"A name from Ferelden legend," Amelia mused softly. "My mother used to tell it to me." Her eyes narrowed as she considered this Flemeth and everything she knew of the legend built around her. "This meeting was no accident, was it?"

Flemeth smiled in approval, inclining her head to the mage before her. "Clever lass."

"The voices came from you?" Morrigan asked, her voice trembling even as she made the accusation.

"The price of the Well seemed no dire thing when you saw so much gain, hmm?" Flemeth's tone was brittle as she countered that accusation, but she softened, like a mother to an errant child caught misbehaving. "The voices did not lie, Morrigan. I can help you fight Corypheus." She reached up, touching her palm to Morrigan's brow, and for the the briefest of moments, something seemed to pass from elder to younger. "Do you understand, child?"

Slowly, Morrigan's eyes opened. "Yes, I ... think I do," she agreed in tones of wonder. But as Flemeth turned to walk away, wonder turned to panic. "Wait!"

Flemeth paused, looking back at her. "I wished only to see who drank from the Well of Sorrows. It has been a very long time." She chuckled lightly, her expression almost fond as she looked on the yellow-eyed witch who had once been her daughter. "Imagine my surprise to discover it was you."

"And ... that is all?" Morrigan didn't seem quite able to believe it, though Amelia could not have guessed why.

"A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan," Flemeth told her regretfully. "You were never in danger from me."

She turned from them then, disappearing back into the mists that dissipated as swiftly as they had formed. Gradually, the grove came back to life. As the birdsong renewed and the breeze freshened the air, Amelia glanced down, startled to find her hand laid protectively over the flatness of her belly. Was it really true, she wondered. Was she really carrying Cullen's child? When had it happened? She wasn't showing, she hadn't missed ... Wait. She had. Twice now, she had failed to bleed, and both times she had dismissed it as nothing to be concerned with. Morrigan was certain Flemeth had not lied, so ... A disbelieving smile tugged at her lips, her palm pressing tighter to her womb. Terrible timing, but ... Hello, baby.

"All things considered, Inquisitor," Morrigan's rueful tone broke into her muddled wonder, "I now wish you had drunk from the Well."

"I don't." The words were out before she could stop them, and for a moment, Morrigan's feline eyes were hard with anger as their gazes met. But Morrigan was the one who softened, glancing down to the protective hand Amelia held splayed over her stomach.

"You did not know?" she asked in a mild tone, smiling when Amelia shook her head. "Then I do not blame your wish."

"Thank you." Amelia turned, laying her fingertips gently against the carven stone hand that reached down to them, repeating her thanks in the hope that Flemeth might hear.

"What she said is true, at least," Morrigan said as they made their way from the grove together. "I have the answer to your problem. I can match the archdemon, when the times comes. All that remains is for you to find Corypheus."

"Oh, is that all?" Amelia laughed. She couldn't help it - here and now, knowing what she knew, she felt invincible. And it would appear she was not the only one feeling that strength and bliss.

"... bursting brightness, fire in the darkness," Cole was saying as the two reached their companions. "Alive with light from tips to toes."

The spirit boy beamed as Amelia went to him, taking his hands into hers. "I just need one word, Cole, yes or no," she told him hopefully, ignoring the impatient confusion on Cassandra's face for the moment. She needed this answer, and Cole was the only person here she trusted to be honest with her, who had the skill to know. "Is it true?"

He clung to her hands, his watery eyes skimming down to her belly and back to her face, visibly fizzing with delight. "Yes," he confirmed, letting loose a sweet little giggle as she threw her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"Amelia?"

She drew back from Cole, one finger on his lips swearing him to silence, meeting Cassandra's worried gaze with a confident smile. "We have what we came for, Cassandra," she assured her friend. "Let's go home."

The journey back was far more comfortable now she knew the source of her strange ailments. Looking back over the past weeks, Amelia couldn't believe she had failed to put it all together - the nausea, the fatigue, the aches ... the uncomfortable sensitivity that had required not one, but two adjustments of her breastband to counter. Her sudden aversion to elfroot, which sadly had to be ignored for obvious reasons. Her unexpectedly voracious appetite for all things passionate with her husband. It all told the same story, one she had been too blind to see. And the things she had done! Thrown herself headlong into battle, fought Samson virtually single-handed, come within a hair's breadth of drinking from the Well of Sorrows herself ... but would it have been any different if she had known? Everything she had done had been necessary; no one could have done them but her. And with Corypheus still at large, she couldn't just stop. She was the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Corypheus was her responsibility, no matter the cost. But was she really prepared to wager the life of her unborn child against every life in the world?

By the time they reached Skyhold, four days later, her euphoria was gone, replaced with gnawing worry that ate at her soul. One unborn life when weighed against the fate of the world was no choice, yet she still struggled to make it. She needed another perspective, but the only person she wanted to tell was the only person who would struggle with her for exactly the same reasons. She didn't have the right to inflict this pain on him, yet who else would understand? There was nothing for it. She would have to tell Cullen.

As luck would have it, he wasn't in his office. He wasn't in the war room. He wasn't even in their quarters. The captain of the guard was certain the commander was in the fortress, and in desperation, she made her way to the garden. Perhaps he was playing a match against Dorian. But no ... the board was occupied by a pair of bickering nobles. At a loss, she leaned against the cool stone of the cloister wall, trying to calm her thoughts. She must have just missed him. Perhaps if she retraced her steps ...

Just as she was preparing to head back toward the main hall, she heard his voice, low and fervent in the quiet.

"... though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide ..."

Amelia turned, her gaze drawn to the open door of the little chapel that was maintained by Mother Giselle and her assistants. Why hadn't she thought of that before? One thing she and Cullen had always shared was their faith, the comfort they found in prayer. It should have come as no surprise to hear him in the chapel, reciting the Chant, as he had done every day of his life.

"... I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond ..."

There he was, on one knee before the statue of Andraste, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together. The fervor he radiated was palpable, firm in his belief that the Maker would protect them. She envied him that strength of focus - somewhere along the way, she had lost her own conviction. At Haven, perhaps, when the Chantry's fables had been proved true; or perhaps it was at Adamant, when the truth had revealed no hand of Andraste at work. Whenever it had happened, she no longer believed so devoutly as she had before. Her faith no longer burned inside her. After all she had seen and done, how could it? The Maker, Andraste ... they were a comfort, but no more. They no more cared for this world than Corypheus.

"... for there is no darkness in the Maker's light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

As Cullen fell silent, she stepped into the chapel, moving to thread her fingers through the golden curls of his hair. "A prayer for you?" she asked, her voice reverently soft in this consecrated place.

"For those we have lost." He rose to his feet, gathering her hand between both his own as his gaze found hers. "And those who I am afraid to lose."

"You're afraid?" she echoed, finding it difficult to believe. Through everything they had experienced, everything he had endured, Cullen was never afraid.

"Of course I am," he insisted, letting her see that fear in his whisky-light eyes. "Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mythal; what more is he capable of?"

"Be grateful you didn't witness it personally," she told him, closing her eyes against that memory. She would never forget it, but in time, perhaps, it would stop haunting her dreams. "It isn't a gentle transition."

"I am sorry you had to see it at all," he murmured, stroking one gloved hand against her cheek. "Was your journey successful?"

She nodded. "Morrigan has the means to match the archdemon," she assured him, and for just a moment, the words hovered on the tip of her tongue - I'm pregnant. You're going to be a father. But he had already moved on.

"I'm glad of that," he said solemnly, his fingers grazing her neck with tender intimacy. "It's only a matter of time before he retaliates. We must draw strength wherever we can. When the time comes ..." He blew out a strained breath, leaning down to press his brow to hers. "You will be thrown into his path again. Andraste preserve me ... I must send you to him."

Despite her own fear, Amelia felt herself smile, needing him to believe she was sure of victory. "There's nothing to worry about," she promised, with a confidence she did not feel. "I have luck on my side, remember?"

From beneath the hang of her tunic, she pulled a thin chain, from which dangled the silver Ferelden coin he had given her - his lucky token, given to him in childhood by a brother who'd wanted to be remembered when he went away. Cullen let out a low laugh, the sound almost sad as he touched the shining coin.

"That's ... less comforting than I'd hoped," he admitted, holding her gaze for a long moment, tender love and terrified misery warring in his expression. Gentle arms wrapped about her waist, pulling her into a heartfelt embrace, his breath warm against her neck as he whispered to her. "Whatever happens, Ame ... you will come back."

She pressed herself close, heedless of his armor, burying her face into the warm fur of his mantle. "I certainly hope so."

His hands tightened on her. "The thought of losing you ... I can't ..."

As the anguish in his voice seared into her, Amelia knew she couldn't tell him. He was already grieving, just at the thought of her death, more vulnerable than she had ever known him before. To tell him now ... it would just be cruel. If she lost, he would have to grieve both her and the child. Even if she won, there was a high probability she would lose the child. She couldn't do that to Cullen. He would suffer enough over the what ifs until Corypheus showed himself; telling him about the baby would only cause him more grief. Held there in his arms, Amelia made her decision, leaving her fate - and the fate of her unborn child - in the Maker's hands. One more chance, to prove He really did care for His children.

"You will never lose me," she promised her distraught husband, raising her head to meet his eyes with earnest sincerity. "You've already tried to get rid of me once, and look how that turned out."

In spite of himself, Cullen laughed again, closing his eyes briefly as his forehead came to rest against her own. "Do you plan on giving me another scar to remember you by?" he asked, his warm tone affectionate.

Amelia felt herself smile in answer. "I think there are better ways to make memories," she murmured, stepping back to take his hand in hers.

With fingers tangled, she lead him out of the chapel, through the cloister, with barely a word of protest from him. Through the main hall, where no one stopped them, up the interminable stairs, to their quarters, and privacy. And the memory they made there was soft and slow, filled with loving words and tender touches. It wasn't goodbye, but rather, and affirmation of what it had taken six years of marriage to discover - that love, their love, could overcome any obstacle, if they just had the courage to believe. Her faith in the Maker might well have been shaken, but nothing could shake her faith in her husband. And that, for now, was enough.

#her beacon and her shield #multi-chapter fic #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #dai #fanfiction #writing #cullen rutherford/female trevelyan #cullen rutherford #amelia rutherford #cassandra pentaghast #cole #solas #morrigan #flemeth #mythal #surprise!

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redshift-13 · 7 years

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My Dark Dream of the Cosmos [repost with edits]

I rarely have nightmare, maybe 1-3 a year, say. After waking up from one, and after my brain lets its emotional residue escape through a trap door at the back of the mind, I usually lay there savoring it until I fall asleep. Such dreams are a stark interruption of everyday awareness and a mental shock paddle reminding you that you are alive. I’m grateful I have them.

I really have no biographical trauma, awful life experiences or real life nightmares that would serve as raw material for bad dreams. Perhaps this is why I respond the way I do to my nightmares—as a fascinated appreciator of the gothic creativity of the unconscious.

But there was one nightmare, only one I can remember, that became more than an opportunity for aesthetic appreciation. It was a singular psychological event. I would even describe it as a kind of metaphysical awakening. It had an emotional punch that was so intense I didn’t want to go back to sleep. I’d felt like I’d seen a truth, elemental and implacable, horrifying in its implications, a gnostic insight that had come reaching for me out of interstellar space.

I took notes on it the next morning, but nothing too descriptive. I mostly wanted to make sure I didn’t forget it. Now I realize that wasn’t ever a worry. How could I forget it?

The question for me now is whether through language alone I can ever adequately approach the full mood and meaning of this dream. I don’t want to overstate this. Now matter how good our descriptions, words and ideas inevitably fall short of experience. Language wanders outside the plexiglass cage of reality, trying to see in. The limitation of language seems especially true for my nightmare.

So, without further ado, what was this dream? In short, it was a glimpse of the unimaginable magnitude and vastly overpowering might of the universe, my own life as minuscule by comparison, and the iron law inevitability of death.

That sounds fairly pedestrian, I grant. But this is why I hesitate to write about it, since anything more descriptively true to the dream immediately risks becoming overwrought and less believable.

Here are some sentence sketches:

-I’m lying on my back, but everywhere I look there is the universe, which doesn’t exactly surround me but is on top of me. The crushing weightlessness of night sky.

-The sense of inconceivable vastness and distance—the greatest conceivable profundity of the physical.

-The incongruity of the greatest immensity being without sound.

-The feeling that all the action that exists anywhere, everything that matters, is out there in the starry beyond, vast ages behind and ahead of me. 99.9999…% of everything ever thought and created before me and after is up there, out there in the vastness. We won’t be around for the musical event that spans the galaxy a million years from now. This music brings new forms of life into being and needles through the membrane of the multiverse where The Great Shimmering occurs. But that will be forgotten as well. Unimaginable things will be experienced by future others, not us.

-The universe as implacable law. Everything is in it, everything is subject to it; the absolute impossibility of escaping it or it being different than it is. Universal physical laws spanning the ALL. Determinism more than probability. Absolute powerlessness against planets, stars, galaxies. Natural forces always win in the end. Gravity, the second law of thermodynamics, etc., as almost sentient, with absolute dominance.

-My sense of self in comparison with the ALL— an obliterating smallness.

-A flicker of conscious awareness. My life a blip and then eternal nothing, noticed by nothing, without meaning to the cosmic future; short term being is effective non-being. All of our lives caught up in the rapid biological churn of life and death against the black undulating lightyear curtains of slow cosmic movement into the future. We are helpless to stop the lid of time opening and closing.

-Death, the ur-concept underlying the star-glinted blackness. The cosmos as vast cemetery for the biological. A universe designed for death. Universe = destiny = death. The All as void, yet the source of all power.

Dark, eh? Now imagine all of this conceptual stuff as implicit in the dream, things you understand without much trying, and existing as an enveloping mood or emotion that sees everything through itself (as can happen in dreams).

Fernando Pessoa, paraphrasing: “Some people think with their feelings, but I feel with my thoughts.”

Give this a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBPp8xKjH7w (Bill Laswell and Tetsu Inoue - Monochrome Existence). Even this piece is too lively as a musical backdrop for the dream, but it helps. Ultimately, the only music that could convey the feeling of this dream exists as paradox. Any sound from music falsifies the experience, and so negates itself as representation or suggestion. But sound, if only the sound of words, is needed to approach the feeling of this dream and is thus required.

I was glad to wake up from this nightmare. I was a piece of garbage floating out to the infinite sea and had no interest in being swept away. In fact, I’d be fine with not having a repeat of it. But part of me actually desires to see this vision again. There’s an impulse in me to know everything, to live a hundred lives and a million years. The universe is my only home and I want to see it from all angles and be all of its beings. I want the eyes of stars and vast wings of nothingness that touch things I can’t see.

A friend of mine had a vaguely or somewhat similar dark cosmos experience when he was in college, except he was awake when it happened.

So he tells me, he was in his dorm room thinking about the universe when he felt as though he was being pulled into a vastness so great he felt he was on the verge of losing himself. I forget the specific words he used, but I do recall him conveying the sense of falling into the black heavens, a space with no handholds, his profound dread and anxiety, and him mentally scrambling back to familiar ground. The reductive explanation is that his experience was “just” some kind of psychological episode. Highly intelligent, imaginative, philosophical, I’m prepared to accept an alternative explanation—that he was able to take himself intellectually to the brink of his existence relative to the universe. Maybe the former propelled the latter. The next time we hang out I’ll ask him to describe this one more time. A few years ago at a roundtable discussion someone else described a similar experience. I remember almost nothing about it other than for the person who had this waking journey it was profound and life changing. He went from being an atheist to some kind of cosmic spiritualist. I remained an atheist after my dream. Terrifying gothic cosmic splendor is an aesthetic and overall intellectual frame that now sits in tension with my optimistic humanism and transhumanism.

What’s going on here?

Maybe there’s a cosmic existential subconscious that finally becomes available to consciousness provided that the right set of factors are present. The imagination of science fiction. The limits of understanding in a discipline. The limits of language, the exhaustion of language. The alchemical turn of the avant-garde from new to echo. The hiddenness of being. How much do any of these play a part? I suspect I haven’t yet put my finger on it. The only thing one can confidently say about it is that it seems to break through into awareness through waking or sleeping dreams.

Our current knowledge is one of an endless series of plateaus directing the gaze of our species into the trickster future. From its perches we continually refresh our vision. Our illusions fall along with the totalities of humanness that pass into geological ruin and forgetting. Maybe we’re all culturally maturing according to hidden nomological trajectories of sentience in the universe. Maybe we’re heading toward a time when we all dream together. Our blood is rising to a distant dawn—post-human, post-earth, post-everything—but we still can’t look directly at the jewel. The ladders to Rigel and Orion glow with gold. We can see this future but suffer from the knowledge we can’t touch it. Our dark dreams will eventually pass out of time.

What does this dream of mine mean to me? What does it tell me about my psychology? It’s hard to say. Maybe I see myself too much in Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet. I think strange thoughts about the future. I wonder about what I don’t know yet, and what the universe means. I see the shortness of life and how love always has a knife at its throat.

If you’ve had a similar dream or wakened vision, I’d be curious to hear about it.

#photo by Lianne Morgan #my dark dream of the cosmos #dreams #gothic #existential #me #writing

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