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ikeromantic · 23 days

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Distance

A Chevalier Michel fanfiction. Approx. 3000 words. This scene takes place in Chapter 14 of the main route and is told from Chevalier’s POV. Part 14 of a series.

Chapter List

Chevalier glared at the report as if his icy disdain might change the words there.

“It’s an uprising in your own lands. Embarrassing, isn’t it?” Clavis almost seemed gleeful. “They’ve taken the border fort and set up blockades on the road. The villagers are supplying them with food and other resources.”

“Shut up.” Everything Clavis said was already clear on the page. He didn’t need to hear it spoken aloud.

Clavis smiled thinly. “What are you going to do?”

“What I must.” Chevalier stood. “Make the arrangements.”

“Already done.”

Chev nodded. His brother was efficient at least. He left without another word, though his thoughts strayed. Emma.

His soldiers met him at the palace gates, their gazes as hard and cold as his own. They understood what would be needed. He gave them a grim smile. “We have a fort to retake.”

Another troop might have shouted with false bravado at his command, but not his men. There was no joy to be taken from this battle. Only duty. They saluted, silent as the grave, and then followed Chevalier as he rode through the dark streets toward the northwestern territories. His lands, his people. His fight.

He glanced back at the palace just once. Was she asleep? Was she dreaming? Chevalier felt an odd ache in his chest at the thought of not seeing her in the days ahead. But the Belle had no place on a battlefield. He did not want her to see . . . Chev shook off the foolish thought, the memory of her gazing at him in fear. Her wide eyes and tear soaked lashes.

No.

There was bloody work to be done, and the opinions of one naive girl could not - would not - change that. It did not matter if the Belle saw the Brutal Beast or no. There was no place in duty for such considerations. And if it made her fear him again, well, perhaps that was for the best. He cloaked his heart with ice and rode on.

The village was in chaos when the knights arrived. Desperate attempts to fortify it against the inland road clashed with loyalists trying to dismantle the same barriers. The fort itself sat in the distance, all gates closed and barred.

Chevalier knew Black would try to negotiate. Talk them down. Take weeks, perhaps months to determine who the guilty parties were. And such gentle tactics would leave traitors seeded in the midst of the citizens, cowards as well, waiting for the next moment a betrayal would be to their advantage. He would brook no such delays, nor imperfect results.

“First secure the village,” he called. His knights slammed fist to shield and then split off into their separate companies, each led by a handpicked commander. Chev’s personal guards stayed close to him as he rode into the fray.

As expected, the commoners put up little real fight. When presented with a professional soldier in opposition, most surrendered. Others tried to fight back, organizing badly equipped sorties. Those died fighting, their efforts more nuisance than dangerous. The real battle was with the traitor soldiers. Some hid in the houses, attacking when the knights least expected it. Chevalier’s troops spent days clearing the village building by building. Days of bloodshed and misery.

Attempts to negotiate were met with failure. The traitors seemed to have no unified demands. Mostly, they were just angry. Angry at the sacrifices they’d made for their country. The loss of loved ones, dreams of hearth and family fading as duty claimed their youth, living through the pain of past wounds. An ache in their hearts that turned to poison. And the second prince had an idea of how deep that poison went.

Chevalier faced it with the unshakeable certainty that he was protecting Rhodolite. His life, the lives of his knights, and the life of any villager were forfeit to the greater good. Even if sometimes it was hard to hold to that vision when covered in the blood and filth of a battlefield. The peaceful future he worked toward felt distant and impossible.

Grim resolve kept him advancing. The knowledge that any other action would only lead to more death and despair. But, he found an odd thought filling his mind in the midst of the chaos. Emma. Her gentle smile and playful gaze. The kindness in her, and the strength of her heart.

Foolish. What was the value of one woman’s life that it should settle his soul in the midst of this slaughter? And yet. He did not chase her from his thoughts.

Support arrived from the capitol just as the fortress broke. The traitors spilled from the gates, hungry and desperate. Chevalier’s knights met them just outside the village in another wave of carnage. The slaughter was less one-sided this time, as their enemies were well equipped. Professional soldiers with arms and armor, fighting with all the determination of cornered rats.

The village would be in the Clown’s deft hands, leaving Chevalier free to focus on what mattered. He gazed out at the battle, the fort, and the border beyond. At the edge of the fighting, he noticed a familiar mop of unruly red hair. Jumbo. Why had he stirred himself to - “Oh.” The sound left him in a sudden exhalation. An irrational response he tamped down with a grimace.

“Stay here.” He motioned to the knights at his side as he rode toward his youngest brother. Jumbo stood beside the Belle, his usual lackadaisical smile missing. Chevalier scowled. He could not imagine what madness infected his brothers. To bring the Belle here, to a dangerous place. Her life - her duty - was at risk. And while he cursed the Clown and Four Eyes for allowing this, he also cursed himself. This was a possibility he should have anticipated.

“What are you doing in a place like this,” he growled. Chevalier dismounted with a leap and strode toward the two.

The Belle was staring at him, he realized. Her eyes were wide with horror and disgust. Blood soaked the hem of her skirt and stained her hands and the slip of paper she clutched in them.

It took Chevalier a moment to realize there was a body at her feet. A knight. And not just any of his troops. The fallen man was one of his scouts. “Ah . . . so he is dead.” He took the scrap of bloodied paper from Emma’s hand, knowing it was for this that his scout died. “He seems to have been of some use.”

Emma’s expression crumpled as if she were about to cry. She didn’t understand what he meant - that this death had meaning and purpose. That this knight served a greater good, and this sacrifice mattered. She only heard the cold, flat tone of Chev’s voice. But she didn’t cry. Her jaw firmed and she looked the prince right in the eye. “This man was one of your knights, wasn’t he?”

“Indeed.” Chevalier watched her, curious whether or not she could see the death as he did. Or if she would fall to simple emotion.

“Th-then -”

“Don’t bother saying something foolish, like ‘You should mourn the dead’.” Chevalier interrupted. Grief was a pointless emotion. It could not return the dead to you, nor ease the sense of loss. What mattered was ensuring the death meant something. That this loss, and the loss of every soldier that died in this action, protected Rhodolite.

“I . . . I . . .” The Belle stammered, uncertainty taking the words from her lips.

Chevalier gripped the bloodied paper, his knuckles white beneath his gloves. “I have no use for the dead. And once someone is no longer useful, that is that.”

Her eyes widened further, conflict playing out in her horrified expression. Emma’s mouth opened once. Twice. The third time, she managed to speak, her voice cracking under the weight of the tears she refused to shed. “Don’t you have a shred of humanity in your heart?”

Part of him wanted to reassure her, but that would be a lie. An unnecessary lie. It was better for her to understand what he was. A man that forsook his own heart, the right to his own feelings, and replaced them with the logic and reason needed to protect the country. Not individuals, as no one man or woman was Rhodolite. But the whole. He could not allow himself to mourn one dead man. Nor even a hundred. “I have no need of such a thing,” Chevalier replied with an icy calm.

Jumbo watched, his mouth pressed to a grimace of disapproval. Something hard and angry glinted in his gaze.

“Take the simpleton and go home at once.” Chevalier gave the order without shifting his gaze from the Belle. She wilted, her shoulders falling. Soon she would cry, he thought. He finally looked up at the red head. “If you want to join the mountain of corpses, that’s a different story.”

“Chevalier. You . . .” Jumbo’s fists clenched at his sides.

Chev didn’t wait to see if his warning hit home nor whether his orders were followed. After this, she would leave. She had to. There was no reason for her to stay. He mounted his horse and rode back to the battle. This little detour took him long enough, though at least he’d gathered the report his scout brought in. He ignored the feel of the Belle’s eyes on his back, the hurt betrayal in their depths. She would fear him now.

His chest tightened at the thought and Chevalier snorted, mocking himself. He was no lovestruck princeling. If he felt anything in this moment, it was only the strain of battle and the need to quickly end this fight with the anti-war faction before it brought greater consequences. A truth, if not the whole truth.

Pacifying the traitors in the fortress took days. The turn-coat soldiers fought well, but in the end, they could not stand against the Brutal Beast’s relentless assault. Days of violence, surrounded by blood and death. Chevalier felt no pride in the final moments of victory. The outcome was inevitable, delayed only by the number of bodies willing to throw themselves upon his blade.

He was exhausted, though it did not show.

Chevalier left his camp, eager for a moment alone. The cool evening breeze was a welcome respite. There was a small lake nearby, and at this hour it would be empty and peaceful. It was there that he turned his steps. As Chev crested a small rise, the lake spread out before him. The water was still, and in it he could see the reflected glory of the sunset. But he wasn’t alone. A small figure knelt on the rocky shore. One he regarded with a certain degree of incredulity. She was supposed to be gone. Home. Safe.

His eyes traced the curve of her neck, the sweep of her hair. That little stubborn piece that always escaped her bun hung now beside her ear, brushing the slope of her shoulder. Chevalier walked slowly, letting himself savor her presence before she noticed him. He knew she would be angry, her eyes accusing.. The Belle was supposed to see into the hearts of men, and he hoped she might see . . .

Perhaps that was the problem though. He was a beast without a heart. The useless organ discarded for his duty. The Belle could not read a page that was not there, no matter how clearly she saw.

“You’re very likely to be attacked if you wander alone in a place like this,” he said, finally drawing her attention to him.

She didn’t look up from her handwashing. Blood stained her cuffs, rolled to the elbows as they were. “Prince Chevalier. Why are you -”

“Just taking a little breather,” he admitted. His gaze drifted to her partially submerged hands. A jagged cut marred her skin, seeping blood into the cool lake waters. Chev reached for her over her squawk of surprise. He pulled her arm close enough to evaluate the wound. “You’re hurt. Did a patient scratch you?”

“No!” The Belle jerked her arm away from him with such violence that he didn’t consider trying to keep his grip on her. She was trembling, he realized.

A heavy weight pressed in on him as he held her gaze. “I was only examining the wound.” The explanation felt flat, pointless. Chevalier could still see the fear and revulsion in her eyes. A cloud of pain and anger over their clear depths.

“I’m sorry . . .” Her breath was shallow, her words barely audible.

“That’s why I told you.” He paused and took a steadying breath. A familiar coldness settled over him. “I’m not a decent human being. I am the Brutal Beast.” Chev saw the way her fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. “If you’re afraid, then run away. You don’t need to force yourself to be in my presence.”

For a moment, it seemed she would run. Her muscles tensed, a slight turn in her posture. And then she went still as her eyes filled with tears. Unable to hold back any longer, they slid wetly down her cheeks.

“You’re an eyesore.” He sighed, irritation creeping into his tone. She should have run. It would be better for her. But instead, she stood there weeping. For what? “It makes me want to give you something to really cry about.”

The Belle didn’t reply. Her hands shook as she wiped at the streaks on her face.

Chevalier searched for something to say, but he had no comfort to give. There was only the numbing cold inside him. And that pressure in his chest. He felt as if he could not breathe. Chev turned and walked away.

His steps led him to his tent, where he lay down on the uncomfortable cot. He could hear the sounds of his knights as they chatted beside their campfires. A quiet murmur, the crackle of the flames. Chevalier closed his eyes but he could not sleep. Emma surely hated him now. She understood what he was. Saw with her own eyes his unforgivable nature. Her tear-streaked face settled behind his eyelids.

Chevalier sat up and lit his lamp. A book would distract him. He pulled a book from his pack. The words washed over him, the characters taking life in the lines. But the unfolding drama of the enemies to lovers tale slipped away from him as his mind kept returning to Emma. He cursed himself for the foolishness of it.

After several attempts at distraction, Chev finally got up. He decided he would go check on her. Because of her injury. Which was surely why she haunted his thoughts. She was too much a fool to care for herself and he . . . he needed to make sure the Belle was safe and healthy. His duty, as a prince. The rationale was solid, even if he didn’t fully believe it.

Emma was settled in a village home for the night. Chevalier found her easily enough, the guards lounging outside her door were an easy giveaway. He nodded to them as he let himself in. A low fire burned in the kitchen hearth, giving the inside a dim red glow. He stepped into the open bedroom, his wintery gaze fixed on the bed along the far wall.

He could see her figure in the tangle of sheets, tossing and turning. Sweat-soaked and grimacing in the grip of nightmares, her sleep less than restful. Chevalier crossed the space with silent steps and knelt beside her bed. He took her arm with a careful grip, his touch gentle as he rolled up her nightgown sleeve. “As I expected. You didn’t even treat it.”

The jagged red wounds ran down her forearm, already swollen and warm to the touch. He took wound salve and bandages from his pocket. Chevalier didn’t note the small smile that lifted the corners of his lips as he applied the medicine with a tender touch and then bandaged her.

“N-no! Don’t . . . touch . . . me . . .” Emma cried out in her sleep.

The words hit Chev like a slap. He tied off the bandage and let go of her. Though he could not know what she dreamed of, he could well imagine. Sweat beaded her brow, her expression twisted with dismay as he watched in silence. Another heavy sigh left him. “You really are foolish.”

He wasn’t sure if those words were meant for her, or for himself. Chevalier took her hand in his, unsure what to do. In books, the charming prince would kiss away the nightmare. But he was no charming prince. He gave her hand a squeeze, hoping the slight pressure would calm her. It seemed to, as her expression relaxed again.

“You wouldn’t be having nightmares if you hadn’t come to the battlefield.”

Emma slept on, oblivious to his lecture.

Chevalier said nothing more as he held her hand. He kept ahold of her until he was sure her night terror had passed. She was still, her breathing even. Chev carefully prised his hand from hers and tenderly stroked a hand through her hair.

He wished . . . but wishes were meaningless. The prince left, closing the door quietly behind him.

“You’re sure kind to the Belle.” Clavis’ voice was teasing, his golden gaze full of barely leashed laughter. He raised an eyebrow, his smile widening as he glanced between the closed door and his brother. “Well well. What’s the meaning of this, hm?”

Chev regarded the third prince with icy disdain. “Not everything has to have meaning.”

Clavis nodded slowly as if thinking it over. “All right. Perhaps I misspoke. I thought surely you would have a reason though.”

“There is not.” Chevalier hoped this would be the end of it, but with Clavis . . . A moment of silence passed between them. “You are the one who treated her wound.”

A pale brow rose. “Oh? Is that the story we’re telling then?”

It was clear Clavis would not go along with this without explanation. Chev felt his jaw clench and then he sighed. This was not a battle worth fighting. “I’m well aware that my actions are nonsensical.” He held his brother’s gaze, willing him to accept this vague answer.

Clavis stared at him, his smile faltering for a heartbeat. Something akin to surprise flickered in his eyes.

A slight dip of his chin was all the confirmation Chevalier needed to turn and leave. He didn’t want to say more. Not to himself, much less to his brother. He needed to escape that knowing smirk. He needed distance. His steps were quick, graceful. Out into the dark and quiet night.

#ikemen prince #ikepri chevalier #chevalier michel #fanfiction #otome #fanfic #otome guys

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dokoni-mo · 2 years

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The Odd Couple || Darth Vader x GN! Reader

summary: you weren't expecting him to visit as such an hour.

SFW // angst + fluff

word count: 4109

warnings: swearing, fear, venting, established relationship, mentions of injuries, mentions of canon-typical violence, medical talk, breif mention of a knife, mentions of blood, usage of things like "pretty" and "beautiful" ,angst, vader is soft for one person and one person only, general fluff, ***minor spoilers for the obi-wan series***

a/n: it's been a long long time since I've written my cyborg husband, but I always feel like he's the person i write the best. brings back fond memories of when i was writing my series with him. BUT WE'RE BACK BABY!! i gotta keep my fellow vader simps fed bro is criminally underrated. soft vader is my BIGGEST guilty pleasure oh my god. also, i apologize if anything doesnt make sense canonically. my star wars knowledge is a bit rusty,, also if you catch the undertale reference i love you and please marry me. taglist open!

~~~

You had lost count how many nights in a row it had been that you'd stayed up at an ungodly hour. And whether it was due to nerves, stress, or just loosing track of time while floating through space; you had no way of knowing.

It's not like you needed to stay up this late. Your job with the empire wasn't that important. In fact, it wasn't really important at all. You knew you could be easily replaced if they wanted you to be. That's why you kept your head down at your job. You did it thoroughly and efficiently, just like the Empire wanted everything to be. Sticking out was a death sentence or worse, and you've heard the stories of the worse. You knew damn well you didn't want to be caught up in that.

You were just a cook, after all. You weren't meant for politics, nor fighting nor hunting any Jedi.

Which is why you wondered why you were the one that piqued his interest.

It was the coincidence of all coincidences that had the two of you meeting. Working on the Super Star Destroyer, you figured you were bound to at least see him eventually, but meet? You honestly thought that would have never happened. You were so beneath his position in the Empire that you thought if you were to meet him, it would have been for him to kill you for some reason or another. And, that was exactly what you had thought he had come to do when you did meet.

In the cafeteria that you worked in, there had been an incident. Incidents didn't really happen all that often, but when they did, they were often taken care of rather quickly. However, that one had been really interesting. You were working at the time, so you didn't see much, but you saw a few troopers stand up and start shouting something about the rebellion is right and the Empire needs to be destroyed. It had caused quite a stir.

But, because the word rebellion had been uttered, it caused a large-scale investigation in your work area. The higher-ups had blocked off all the entrances and exists. No one was allowed in or out until everyone had been interrogated and interviewed about what they had seen and/or heard. During the process, a few other troops had been suspected in colluding with those who had the outburst earlier that day.

This had caused an even bigger stir. A stir big enough to where it was the last time you had ever seen those troops. And, it was one large enough, apparently, to go all the way to the top.

Whether it be for intimidation factor, or just because he was free at the moment to deal with the issue, he had come personally to investigate the matter. You, having yet to be interrogated, where scared shitless. The dark lord himself was here? And chances are, you were gonna be one of the unlucky souls that he had to deal with? He was the number one person you did not want to piss off. And if he suspected you in colluding with those troops? You were done for. You couldn't even imagine the type of punishment you would receive. You knew dying was the merciful version of that punishment. God above, please have mercy. You knew one wrong word could be one of the last you would ever say.

It was really really hard to keep your cool; to keep on a brave face. Before that day, you hadn't even caught a glimpse Lord Vader in passing before. The only time you had seen him were through holovids, propaganda, or the image in your head when you heard the stories. And, to be quite frank, none of those things did him any justice. He was sooo much more intimidating in person. Quite larger and taller too. Just having him in the same room made the air turn cold; made everyone that much more on edge.

And that effect was amplified by a factor of ten-thousand when he came closer to you.

Even when you were standing up straight, perfectly at attention, he still absolutely dwarfed you. You had to crane your neck to look up at his mask, all the while hoping that you didn't look too scared to be in front of him. Try as you might, however, you couldn't stop the shake in your fingertips, nor the butterflies in your stomach, nor how your knees had gone significantly weaker the longer he talked to you. Had he noticed this? Probably. Lord Vader was like a blood-sniffing shark; only the blood he smelled was people's fear of death.

You wondered if your scent was a sweet one, then. Because even though that should have been the first and last time you had ever spoken to Lord Vader, he had made it a point that it wasn't.

He disguised it under the pretenses of "Perhaps if I am to return later, your memory will finally be sufficient in telling me critical information". And at first, you believed him. You believed that his visits to you were to just get more information on what had happened that day.

But, one visit quickly turned into two. Then three. Then he was visiting you every week. Then every three days. Then every other day. Until, finally, he visited you seemingly every opportunity that arose. Whenever he had a fleeting moment, and he knew that you would be by yourself, he would always be there with you.

If it was the scent of your fear that kept him coming back, it had been a while since he had gotten a fix of it. You figured that because of the long-term exposure-therapy, that was why you weren't really scared of Lord Vader's visits anymore. In fact, you were excited to see him when he came to your small corner of the Empirical ship. Oddly enough, over the months, you found yourself to be rather close with the Sith. Call it insane, but you felt comfortable around him. You didn't do your normal Empirical formalities with him anymore, and he didn't even seem to care. It was fucking ridiculous, and you knew that if you told anyone about it you would be mocked and ridiculed to Hell, but you felt as if Lord Vader was the only one in the Empire that you could be yourself around.

He felt the same way. At least, that what you had gathered from your time together with him. You were the one that patched his wounds when he returned from a mission, and the one he apparently liked to talk to at night. He eventually started to tell you things as well. Things that no just mere cook for the Empire should know.

He wasn't open about his emotions, but after knowing him so long, you could tell what was going on inside of that metal-plated head of his. By him telling you those things, and by him trusting you enough to repair him (despite the arsenal of nurses and doctors on the damn ship), it was his way of showing you that he had at least some level of trust in you.

It was an odd relationship, to say the absolute least. But, one that you both enjoyed having, even though you both never dared to utter a word about it.

You two had silently agreed that if you were to tell anyone, that would just ruin the magic of it all. It just wouldn't work anymore. Whatever the two of you were, it was based on trust.

And neither one of you were about to break that trust.

It was hard to find people you trusted now adays. For the both of you.

And if a cook placed their trust in the hands of the Dark Lord of the Sith, and then vice-versa, then so be it. You liked the company anyway.

Even if that company came to you at really odd hours.

You had no idea how late it was when you heard the doors to your station open. You just knew it was very, very late; well outside the hours that you were supposed to be up and active and doing your job. But, you didn't care. It wasn't like you would get into any trouble for working, anyway. With your hair pulled back, and your grey apron pulled taunt around your body, you kept your tired gaze situated on the vegetables you were chopping in front of you. Perking your ears, you listened intently for any clues of just who it was that was coming to see you that night, and whether or not you should act accordingly because of it.

You were able, however, to deduce who it was extremely quickly. You could recognize that breath pattern anywhere, as well as the sound of those heavy boots against the hard ground. You smiled softly to yourself, using your finger to clean off your knife.

When he came around the corner to find you, you shot up a smile at him as you pushed the chopped food into a bowl, only sparing him a passing glance for the moment so you didn't cut yourself. His mask was pointed right down at your smaller frame, staring at you without a word. Just like how he usually greeted you.

"You're up late tonight." You said to him as you grabbed a rag from off the metal countertop, using it to wipe off your knife.

"As are you." he rumbled out in response, making you breathe out a laugh. Setting down your rag and knife, you turned to him as you reached behind you, untying your apron and lifting it off of yourself.

"I'm happy to see you, too." You responded as you folded up your apron and set it on the countertop. Crossing your arms over your chest, you finally were able to get a good look at your Sith Lord. He looked awful. He was covered in scrapes and cuts, and even the odd burn or two. It made your smile drop and turn into an expression of worry.

"Oh my god," you said, "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

He said nothing in response and just continued to stare at you.

You sighed, "It was that mission today, wasn't it? Here, come on. I'll patch you up and we can talk about it, if you want."

Walking by the Dark Lord, his mask followed your movements as you pulled out a crate from underneath a workbench, patting it a few times to signal for him to sit on it. He granted your wishes and sat, the metal beneath his weight groaning in complaint as you left to go get your med-kit from off the wall. After retrieving it, you walked back over to Lord Vader and pulled out a crate for yourself. You sat on the edge of it, opening and laying the med-kit out next to you. You pulled out a rag and doused it with some alcohol, wringing out any excess that got sucked up in it. Holding out your hand, you signaled to the Sith that you wanted his own to be placed inside it. He obliged, his much larger palm pointed towards the ceiling as you started to clean off the wounds on his arm.

"So," you said, making sure to be gentle as to not hurt him too much, "are you gonna tell me what happened out there today?"

Despite you not looking at him, you could feel the eyes of Lord Vader's mask looking down at you, the sound of his mechanical breath filling your ears. It was a bit of trouble to get him to talk sometimes, but you understood that. You didn't know much about his past, but you knew it had to be pretty bad if he was stuck forever in that damn suit. Just looking at it made you itch and ache all over. You couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like on the inside.

It made you feel bad for him. Even though he was a slaughterer of many, many souls. But, at the same time, sometimes you found it hard that the Vader you knew and that Vader was the same person. The Vader you knew was just... troubled. Very, very troubled.

And you knew a thing or two about being troubled.

Perhaps that's why he liked you so much. That you were still here, doing all that you did for him, despite everything.

Looking down at you as you cleaned his wounds, he was made more aware of that than usual. And, in the dim light of that kitchen, with the stars of the galaxy overhead, he had to admit:

You were quite beautiful.

Lord Vader had always found you attractive. He never said it, but he did. He had thought you always were pretty. But tonight was just...

Different.

Perhaps you could tell that too.

"I found him." Lord Vader eventually said, making you pause briefly to look up at him. You were a bit puzzled. From how he described the "incompetency" of the inquisitors, you figured that they would have never found what they were looking for. Especially because who they were searching for was so good at hiding.

"You mean that Kenobi guy?" you asked him. Not because you didn't believe him, but because you wanted to make sure you were both talking about the same person.

"Yes."

Finished with it, you set the alcohol rag down and got out the bandages instead.

"Yeah?" you asked, ripping off pieces of the bandages small enough to fit under his suit, "Honestly, I didn't think you guys would find him. I thought he would already be dead. Taken in for a bounty or something, yknow?"

Vader said nothing in response. You glanced up at him from your work.

"I'm guessing it didn't go as planned?" You said, phrasing it was a question when it was more of a statement. You found it kind of odd that it hadn't gone the way Vader wanted it to go. Typically, whenever he was on the job, it was always be successful. Surely one Jedi who presumably hadn't had any fighting experience in ten years would just be small pickings for someone like Lord Vader.

Unless...

There was more to it.

"No." He said flatly, "It did not."

"He got away then? I see... Well, even so, don't beat yourself up too hard about it. He is a Jedi. I've heard that they can be full of tricks. And he probably had help you weren't expecting him to have either." You shot up a smile at him, "Besides, I know you'll get him next time."

The Sith stared down at your smile in silence.

Your features were soft. You looked tired, the bags under your eyes darker than usual. Your hair wasn't as voluminous as it should have been, and your eyes had a somewhat faraway look in them. Your smile perfectly curved upwards, too, trailing along your jaw phenomenally well.

Pretty.

Without another word, you resumed your work back on his arm, finishing up the last few patches of bandages. You wondered if that was all he was gonna say that night.

"I used to know him."

You paused your work and slowly looked up at Lord Vader, your lips parting softly. Out of all the things you were expecting to hear from the Sith in front of you. He didn't tell you a lot about his past. And to drop that bombshell on you all at once? Something really was different about tonight.

"Personally?" You asked, winding up the bandage you had been using and putting it back in the med-kit. You could have gone farther with patching him up, but decided against it. He was rarely ever this open with you, and you wanted to make sure that he knew that you cared and that you were listening.

"I was a jedi once. Long ago." he responded.

You tried not to react too hard. Deep down, you always suspected that he was. You figured no one starts off as being bad.

They're only ever tricked into being so.

And you figured that was the case with him as well. There was just no possible scenario that anyone could be born willing to snap peoples necks and slice them in half all day like it was nothing. In an odd way, you sympathized with that. You didn't agree with killing all those people (even if he tried to say it was for good reason), but you could understand where he may be coming from, or just what or who was encouraging him to do it. Or tricked him into being that way. You were tricked into joining the Empire as well.

Perhaps it was the same with him.

"So you know him from then? Were the two of you close?" you responded to him, deciding against being a smartass and telling him that you always suspected that he was a jedi. Again, it was best to just let him talk while he was willing to.

"We were... We were like brothers." was all he said.

You felt your face soften at his words, your brows arching and your eyes filling with sympathy. You didn't have any siblings, and definitely not any found family of any sort. While you couldn't exactly relate to the dark lord in this regard, you still at least knew how bad it would hurt to be brothers-in-arms with someone one moment, and then sworn enemies the next. But, then again, that panged another question into your mind.

Did he even want to kill Kenobi in the first place?

Or was that just what everyone around him expected him to do?

That was something you could understand. Doing things just for the sake of pleasing others. Hell, you did it damn near every day. It was basically your job at this point. But, then again, your job didn't involve killing anyone. That was something you knew you would never fully understand.

Even though you ever would understand, you could at least be of some sort of consolation to the dark lord. Over the many days and nights the two of you had spent together, you were surprised to learn that even someone like him needs to shoulder to lean on. Everyone thought of him as just some sort of killing machine, deadest on revenge, bloodlust, and fear. You could understand this. You were once the same way.

But, after learning about the man inside that shell of villainy, your perspective on the sith had changed. You were a blank slate to him. You weren't clouded by judgement of who he used to be, nor of any strong opinions on why he was the way he was now.

You felt sorry for him.

And perhaps that's what he needed most in the world.

"Hey," you spoke softly to him, reaching out your hand to his own leather-wrapped one. Gently, you wrapped your fingers around his much bigger and thicker ones, giving the mechanical digits a tight squeeze as you offered him a sympathetic smile. His mask was still pointed at your face, but dropped briefly to look at your hand upon his. It was warm and tight, but still gentle.

Lord Vader hadn't had the privilege of such a thing in a long time.

"It sounds like you're really stuck between a rock and a hard place, huh?" you asked him, "I can't imagine what it's like to have to do something like this. No one should have to go through that in the first place. But hey, remember something for me okay? Despite everything that's happened in your past, you're still you. You're ultimately the master of your own life. I'm sure you're gonna figure all this out and make the right decision."

You squeezed his and again, breathing out another smile.

"Besides," you said, "I'm sure that regardless of what happened all those years ago, Kenobi still cares for you. He wouldn't have come out of hiding if he didn't."

Vader stared ahead at you for a good long while, his cold, mechanical breathing steady as he studied your face. He felt your hand upon his, and wondered to himself if that was the only thing left that was grounding him to reality. How could you have possibly said that to him? Didn't you know what he stood for? All that he had done? He was sure you had heard at least some of the stories. But, did that matter to you? Here you were, right in front of him, listening to what he had to say. You had even smiled at him and held his hand, offering him something he hadn't received in a long, long time.

Comfort.

Hell, the last time he got anything of the sort was only a distant memory in the back of his head. All that time ago, on Mustafar where she had come to see him. He was a fool back then. He made many, many mistakes. Countless mistakes.

But, looking at you there in the dim, cool light of that kitchen, feeling your warm, small palm on his fingers and seeing you smile at him like that, one thing was made clear to the dark lord.

He absolutely, positively refused to make the same mistakes with you.

You were his last shot. You were his last helpline to mundane life. Long ago he had sworn himself to her, but he knew that this is what he must do now. He prayed that wherever she was, she would understand. Deep down, however, he knew that she would. She had always been smart like that. She always knew what he needed before he even did so himself. Perhaps it was her that brought you to him, and not just some dumb luck.

It didn't matter. He didn't care anymore. The only thing that he cared about now, that he could say with any semblance of certainty, was you. It was dangerous to admit that; he was well aware. But for whatever this was between the pair of you, it was worth all the risk. He hoped you were willing to fight for it as well.

Turning over his palm, the dark lord gently took your hand into his own, wedging his thick fingers through the gaps of your smaller ones to hold your hand close to his. He wondered if you felt the mechanics of his hands in your own as he held onto you tightly, watching as your lips gently parted at the rather sudden affections of the sith lord. In all his visits to your kitchen, he never once did anything of the sort. You always wondered if he was scared to touch you, but made no effort to get to the root of it. You figured he'd come to you on his own.

And he did.

You had always been smart like that.

"(Y/N)," he rumbled out eventually, "You truly never cease to amaze me."

You breathed out another smile, "Vader, please. Anyone could have told you that. I'm just one of the lucky few that has gotten to know you like this."

The dark lord's grip on your hand tightened, his large thumb stroking the back of your palm in a smooth, rhythmic pace.

"I am..." He begun, seemingly at a loss for words, "I am truly grateful for that in doing so, you have not run away from me. Your heart is truly beautiful, (Y/N)."

The sith lifted up his other hand to you. Slowly, he brought it up so that it was level with your face. After a brief moment, he moved up his fingertips to gently brush the side of your face, folding them backwards so that his hand cupped your warm, plump cheek.

"You, are beautiful, (Y/N)."

His leather-gloved hand was cool against your skin, but pleasant. He held you as if you were made of the most fragile material in all of the galaxy, his other hand not faltering on the grip it hand on your own. For a man known for his cruelty, hostility, and punishing nature, the way he held you that night made it seem like all of the past before him was just one huge misunderstanding. You and you alone got to see the man behind the dark lord that night. Past all the villainy, rage, and slaughter.

And oh what a sight it was.

#darth vader x reader #darth vader x you #star wars x you #star wars x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader

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leiawritesstories · 1 year

Text

Summary: Aelin Galathynius had a hand in just about every illegal dealing in all of Terrasen. Weapons, drugs, organized crime, the black market, blackmail, assassination, coercion, bribery–you name it, she was almost definitely connected to it. The only problem? Nobody could prove it.

Rowan Whitethorn, fresh out of Terrasen’s elite special forces academy–known only as Doranelle for secrecy–was convinced he could unmask Aelin Galathynius. So convinced, in fact, that he’d managed to obtain special orders from his commander to do just that. The only problem? He had exactly three hundred and sixty-five days. If he couldn’t prove Aelin Galathynius guilty in one year’s time, he’d be booted down to corporal in disgrace.

Something neither Aelin nor Rowan could have expected, though, was each other. When their paths cross–and oh, their paths will cross–who will come out ahead?

CW: violence, swearing, crime, drugs, death, lots of illegal activities, NSFW

Masterlist

~~~

PROLOGUE: CONCRETE PROOF

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of violence, crime scenes, weapons, drugs, references to homicide

Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At precisely eight o’clock a.m. each morning, the polished chrome elevator doors swished open with a ping, and a pair of patent-leather stiletto heels so shiny you could see your reflection in the material clicked with brisk, deadly efficiency across the hardwood flooring of Galathynius, Incorporated.

Located on the top five floors of one of downtown Orynth’s most prestigious office buildings, the technology company had risen to the top percentile of its field quietly, its success largely thanks to years of hard work by the late Rhoe Galathynius and Evalin Ashryver. Upon their passing, their only daughter–Aelin Ashryver Galathynius–inherited the whole company.

Less than six months after she took over, Galathynius, Inc. was the uncontested leader of its field, perhaps the head of all the businesses in Orynth, perhaps even in all of Terrasen. Her employees, to a person, were either completely terrified or completely starstruck of her. Aelin took that as a compliment. She’d worked hard to build her image; she wasn’t about to break it for some sniveling intern who couldn’t take a word of criticism. Besides, who ever heard of a crime boss that was all sunshine and rainbows? She had an image to uphold, both professionally and…well, less professionally.

Better the innocent, unsuspecting employees of Galathynius, Inc. think her an unapproachable CEO than a cold-blooded criminal.

Galathynius, Inc. was a perfectly legitimate business, despite the foul rumors that claimed it was nothing more than a facade for criminal activity. Aelin snorted every time she read a new theory in the news or the tabloids, each claim somehow more outrageous than the last. In the four years since she’d become CEO, she’d seen them all: nepotism, daddy’s money, buying out the competition, bribery, affairs, selling her body for prestige, and more. She even had a few of the funnier ones tacked to her corkboard, blocky headlines about “GALATHYNIUS CEO CAUGHT AFTER MESSY NIGHT OUT!!!” paired with grainy, badly edited photos that were obviously not her making her laugh each time she saw them.

Aelin kept her personal office on the top floor, a floor reserved specifically for her and her board of trustees, all of whom were close associates in both businesses. She had a work office on the floor below and used that for all the mundane workday things–endless meetings, strategy sessions, presentations, and the like–but her top-floor office was her personal one. The only people who came to see her there were Elide, Lysandra, Ansel, and anyone she needed to…impress.

There was a reason that the boss’s office had tile flooring.

As always, Aelin stepped into Galathynius, Inc’s offices at precisely eight o’clock, her five-inch stiletto heels clicking over the hardwood flooring. She was greeted, as usual, with a ripple of “good morning, ma’am” and other similar greetings from her employees, and she offered her usual small nod as she strode to the private elevator at the back of the office, ascending to the second floor for the Monday morning planning meeting.

“Talk to me,” she commanded, sweeping through the sliding glass doors of the conference room. Elide, the chief of operations, nodded, tipping her head at the director of marketing, who stood up and tapped on her tablet, projecting the quarter’s projections onto the screen.

“We’re completely on track for this quarter, expected to turn a profit at…”

Aelin mostly tuned out the woman’s monologue, focusing on the numbers on the screen and the few details she picked out that sounded most important or interesting. “And the Cortland acquisition?”

“The Cortlands and their attorney will be meeting you tomorrow at eleven to finalize the terms of the merger,” Ansel replied. The redhead was Aelin’s attorney, and a kickass one at that.

“Excellent.” Aelin stood. “Thank you, everyone.” She strode out, got back into the elevator, and went up to her work office, leaving a trail of huge-eyed employees in her wake. They tended to get that look whenever she passed close by.

After confirming that her schedule for the day was clear, Aelin picked up her dark brown leather briefcase and walked across the hall into the upper-level meeting room, a much smaller space that was used mostly for random storage. All the better for her to conceal the top-floor access door there. She slipped behind a row of file cabinets, touched a button on the remote hidden in her pocket, and pressed her thumb to the small black screen that slid out of its hiding place in the wall. The screen flashed green, and with a soft mechanical whirr, the hidden door slid open, and Aelin stepped through. At the top of the secret stairs was another thumbprint-locked door, this one opening into a short, well-lit hallway with a single mahogany door at the end.

The bronze plate on the door simply read Galathynius. One name. One hell of a reputation.

Dropping her briefcase on one of the cushioned chairs in front of her desk, Aelin dropped into her seat, opened her personal laptop–heavily encrypted, of course–and clicked through a maze of innocuous folders before locating the file she wanted. It took her a minute and a half, but she hadn’t clawed her way to this position by taking risks. She let her cursor hover over the file for a few seconds before clicking it.

Opening <Spicy_Romance_Recommendations.xlsx>

Aelin didn’t often consider herself prideful, but she had to admit, that was one of her most clever moves. Nobody who tried to break into her computer would open a file with that name, primarily because it was public knowledge that Aelin Galathynius was a big fan of smutty romances–the less plot, the better. She knew full well that everyone she worked with would likely rather die than read her indecent thoughts about her favorite romance novels.

This file, though, was hardly romantic. It contained several encoded lists of Aelin’s most important not-entirely-legal dealings–shipments, targets, and the like. Needless to say, if anyone other than herself or her inner circle ever got their hands on this file, she would probably be completely screwed. Hence the encoding.

Right on cue, Elide’s distinctive knock sounded on the other side of the door.

Aelin snapped her fingers, disarming the door’s protective protocol. “Come in, Ells.”

Elide Lochan, who was probably the smartest person Aelin knew, strode into the office, her six-inch-heeled boots making her almost as tall as Aelin naturally was. “Mornin’, boss.”

“What’s new around town?”

Elide smirked and took a seat in the comfortable armchair across from Aelin. “Hmm, nothing much. There’s a delivery for Kingsflame today at 14:20, Cortlands are meeting you tomorrow–you knew that–and oh, PD’s after whoever so graciously sprang a certain Mr. Allsbrook from prison the other night.” She raised a perfectly plucked brow at the blonde. “I don’t suppose you have any intel about the prison break, do you?”

Aelin pressed her left hand flat against her chest. “My dear Miss Lochan, I have absolutely no idea what happened! Who could possibly have had the skills, time, and influence to slip such a criminal as Ren Allsbrook from national prison?”

“I swear, you could bullshit the gods themselves,” Elide chuckled. “Right, then. He’s safe?”

“Laying as low as low can get,” Aelin confirmed. “I have my reasons, Ells.”

“Of course.” Elide swiped across her tablet. “Oh–one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

The petite woman’s eyes glittered with dangerous cold. “Do you have room in your schedule for a night meeting–say 20, 2100–at the plant?”

A serpentine smile that had made innumerable people piss themselves crawled across Aelin’s scarlet-painted lips. “The boss always has room for that.”

The siren’s blaring screech jerked Rowan Whitethorn rudely from his deep sleep, and he cursed filthily, swearing at the gods-fucking-damned alarms for going off at this gods-fucking-damned hour of the morning. Night? He couldn’t say. Too damned early. On autopilot, he shoved himself out of bed and into uniform, sliding his handgun into his thigh holster and grabbing his Kevlar vest, then splashed some freezing water on his face to shock him into wakefulness and hurried off to the briefing room.

A hum of conversation, most of it pocked with muttered curses, filled the large space.

Rowan dropped into a chair next to his close friend and squad partner, Lorcan Salvaterre. The dark-haired man, who was even taller and grouchier than Rowan, barely spared him half a glance.

“The hell’s all this?” Rowan asked.

Lorcan shrugged. “Damned if I know.” He flicked a look around the soldiers close by and leaned closer to Rowan’s ear, lowering his voice. “Rumor is they found another body.”

Rowan swore. “Same M.O.?”

“Yep. And,” Lorcan shot Rowan a very significant look, “I’ve heard it showed up at the dead guy’s own property. Surrounded by a shitload of–”

“Attention! Now!” The commander’s order cut off whatever Lorcan had been about to say.

Two hundred of Terrasen’s deadliest special forces, each soldier highly trained and capable of several thousand ways of killing a person, snapped to attention, facing the front of the room, where the squadron commander stood. His hands were clasped behind his back and his face was tight, a barely noticeable flicker in the corner of his jaw marking how hard he was clenching his teeth.

“This won’t be long,” Commander Gavriel Ashryver said once the room had come to complete attentive silence. Gav had been Rowan and Lorcan’s captain when they were in training; he could be damn demanding, but he was an excellent leader. He’d been named commander a couple of years ago when the former one died. “As I’m sure most of you know, we’ve found another body.” He grimaced. “More accurately, Orynth PD has found another body. Same M.O. as every other one we’ve discovered in the last year or so.” He pressed a button on the tiny remote in his hand.

On the projection screen, a series of images flared to life. Rowan’s sharp gaze scanned the photos, picking up all the details of the man who’d been found dead. Red hair, gray eyes, six foot one, a hundred and eighty-seven pounds, lean build, a handful of characteristic scars. Fifty-two years old at time of death.

“Name’s Arobynn Hamel,” Gav continued.

No amount of training could have kept down the ripple of shock that raced through the room.

Arobynn Hamel was a known gangster, drug trafficker, smuggler, and otherwise notorious criminal who’d been evading law enforcement for years, if not decades. The oily bastard had been linked to a rather thick file full of crimes during his lifetime; special forces hadn’t been the only ones trying to get their hands on him.

Gav allowed the shock to die down, then went on. “His corpse was found at his own warehouse at approximately 0500 this morning. Orynth PD reports they discovered the body surrounded by multiple large containers of cocaine.” He clicked the remote again, bringing up the police images of the crime scene–which was, in one word, brutal.

“Fuck,” Rowan murmured under his breath.

“According to PD reports, Hamel had been dead for at least three hours when his body was discovered. We’ll have the morgue’s full report by this afternoon, but initial inspection showed bruises, lacerations, lesions, and burn marks on the body, with the fatal wound undoubtedly being the severed jugular veins and carotid arteries.” Gav paused, waiting a moment for the news to settle. “As for the cocaine found with the body, it’s definitely Hamel’s. Identical bags were found on the property when PD swept it, and at least one of the bags by the body bore fingerprints identified as one of Hamel’s close associates, a criminal known as Graves.”

Why the hell would he have been stupid enough to leave prints? Rowan asked himself, turning over the details in his mind.

Gav swept his gaze over the room, probably noticing the calculation in Rowan’s face. “As of now, this remains an Orynth PD case. However, the most recent communication with the PD chief confirmed that we may be asked to join if–”

“Sir!” A soldier burst through the briefing room doors, a small red slip of paper in his hand. “An urgent message from Orynth PD, sir. Pardon the interruption.”

“Excused.” Gav snatched the paper and read the brief message. “Fuck.” He snapped his attention back to the room. “You’re all dismissed.”

The soldiers streamed out of the briefing room, most of them probably headed back to the barracks to catch another few hours of sleep before the day actually started. Rowan was almost out the door when his itch to say something got the better of him and he stopped, turning back to approach the commander.

“I said dismissed, Whitethorn,” Gav said when Rowan approached.

Rowan saluted. “Yes, sir, you did. I have something to suggest though, sir.”

Gav exhaled sharply. “Speak.”

“Sir, I believe the murders are connected–”

“We already knew that, soldier.” Gav’s jaw was locked. “Say something useful or I’ll have you on patrol for the next eight hours.” He headed out of the briefing room, stalking towards his office.

Rowan followed. “It’s Galathynius, sir. I know it is. Behind the murders.”

“Show me some proof,” Gav returned. “I’m not discrediting your theory, soldier. But it’s nothing more than conjecture until you have concrete proof.”

Rowan scratched the back of his neck. “That’s the problem, sir. I…I don’t have concrete proof.” He raised his hands before Gav could dismiss him. “But I can get proof, I swear. I just need time, sir.”

Gav raised a brow. “You want me to assign you to this case?” He walked into his office, gesturing for Rowan to follow him.

“I, uh–”

“When we’ve only been asked to be quietly involved?” He closed the door.

Rowan said nothing.

Gav shook his head slowly. “I admire your eagerness, Whitethorn, but at this moment I can’t send anyone headlong into this mess.”

“Then when, sir?” Rowan pressed. “If not now, when will I–we–be able to prove that it’s Galathynius behind the murders? Hell, probably behind the whole damn crime ring.”

“You’re verging mighty close on insolence, Whitethorn,” Gav warned.

Rowan clenched his fists behind his back and shut up.

Gav sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was working through a shitload of information in his mind. “I’m telling you this as your former captain, Whitethorn, and if word of this gets out, I’ll have you flogged and on KP for the next damn decade. Clear?” Rowan nodded. “I’ve just received word that Graves has also been found dead.”

Rowan gasped sharply. “Same M.O. as Hamel?”

Gav nodded tightly. “Severed throat, battered body. Pretty nasty crime scene, too.” He fixed Rowan with a piercing stare. “PD officially requests one special forces officer for the investigation.”

Not daring to hope he’d be chosen, Rowan just nodded. Please trust me, he screamed internally.

“Against my better judgment–” Gav sat down at his desk and scrawled his signature onto a document that he passed to Rowan. “I’m assigning you to the investigation.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rowan breathed, folding the document neatly and tucking it into his vest.

“Whitethorn.” Gav’s voice was steely.

“Sir?”

“You have one year.” The words were absolutely final. “One year, Whitethorn. If you can’t prove Galathynius is guilty, I’ll have your ass busted down to corporal and shipped off to Eyllwe. Clear?”

“Yes, sir!” Rowan saluted sharply.

“Good. Dismissed.”

Rowan turned on his heel and left Gav’s office, heading quickly back to his room in the barracks, where he stripped off his gear and took a good look at the letter Gav had given him. It was a simple clearance document, identifying him and his position with the investigative team should anyone ask too many questions and need proof that he was supposed to be there. Good. All in order.

Kneeling on the floor, Rowan reached underneath his mattress and pulled out a manila envelope full of news clippings, photos, images, screenshots, and his own scrawled notes, a year’s worth of info collected from the string of brutal murders that kept cropping up. Each new murder was a known criminal or gangster, someone the law had been trying to capture for years without success. Each followed the same pattern–brutally beaten (probably tortured), throat slashed, body found on the dead man’s property, surrounded by cold hard evidence of his crimes. According to what Rowan knew and had found from the media, only one person could possibly have any motive to take out every notorious criminal in Terrasen.

Aelin Galathynius.

Rowan knew–he just knew–Galathynius was the one. The CEO had charmed the public into believing she was just a particularly savvy businesswoman, which she was. But rumors, gossip, and other, darker sources whispered about her ruthlessness, her cunning, her willingness to do anything to see her business at the top. Those sources also whispered about another business–a much less legal one.

Rumor had it Aelin Galathynius led a criminal organization of her own, and she was taking out her rivals with a heartlessness that even Rowan had to admit was impressive. Either way, the woman was guilty.

And he, Rowan Whitethorn, was going to prove it.

~~~

TAGS: please let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

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@rowanaelinn

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#my writing #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #criminal/investigator au #aelin the crime boss au #aelin is a badass and we are here for it #until proven guilty

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bonegodsstuff · 2 years

Text

Nah, Dottore is just my type of villain.

He's cruel, ruthless, clever to the point where it's really scary to watch.

I like to think that under his mask there are scars and burns, idk, really I just have that impression of Dottore.

Dottore looks like a dangerous man, he is a walking danger that feasts your eyes every day. It is not a common sight nor is it pleasing to those who still have sanity in their minds.

You don't consider yourself particularly interesting or special, you're no different from the rest of the underlings under Dottore's terrifying guidance. You have a job, and you have no intention of disobeying or setting up an opportunity really, just have an advantage over the rest, you like Dottore, like to watch him, you find his experiments interesting and you could say that enjoy your job to some extent.

Nothing more.

You just watch, watch as the fear of their victims comes and goes. Many die, some escape, and those who survive are scarred for life.

You question it a bit, are you insensitive for not helping? Guilty for simply witnessing their suffering without doing anything?

No, you decide that thinking about it is just a distraction.

You lock yourself in a wall of apathy and choose the safe side, where you are not taken as another unfortunate experiment.

Lie to yourself saying that you only feed the morbidity of your mind, cleverly ignore the discomfort that rises in your throat every time you look at real people and that at some point they must have had a life outside this laboratory to fight with their own existence.

Ignore Dottore's gaze lingering on you when you organize files near him or the way you start having more work and end up staying longer than necessary with him.

It's... You really don't have words to describe the feeling of imminent danger. The gloomy atmosphere is a common thing here, but it has just become heavy, that feeling, that of being a lamb waiting for its death is suffocating.

Suffocating. That could be a good word to define how you feel.

The loneliness, the constant isolation from what you knew suffocates you, the suffering and cruelty that cling to the gray walls of the laboratory take your breath away and make you feel symptoms of humanity, empathy for those who have lost their lives here. That is slowly suffocating you.

He can see it.

He can see how you fall apart, you become less efficient and slowly but surely you fall in a spiral that tests your prudence.

You are interesting enough to keep his gaze on you a little longer.

(english is not my first language, sorry for the mistakes! )

#yandere dottore #dottore #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader

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paintedscales · 6 months

Text

disc.01 :: Tending Wounds

The twins learn that playing stupid games earns them stupid prizes.

(I don't know what to make the summary. It's late, I'm tired.)

Word Count: 1,271

The sound of pained wailing was more than enough to have Nomin drop everything that she had been doing in the island cabin. To the deepest pits of hell with whatever it was, even as the ceramic bowl shattered at the bottom of the sink, and the water still ran. The feeling of her heart dropping straight into her bowels as her legs moved on instinct alone made Nomin extremely tunnel visioned as she rushed outside and looked around before bolting in the direction the wailing was coming from.

Hurrying past foliage and through the desire trails, Nomin soon came across a scene where she steeled herself to stay as calm as possible.

One of the twins was curled on the ground, whimpering and wailing as she clutched her bloodied arm. The other twin had a look of horror etched on her face, an all too familiar lance in her possession. That look of horror melted away into guilty sadness as the standing twin started bawling now that their mother had arrived, the lance slipping from her grasp. It fell to the ground with a muffled metallic clatter against the dirt.

“What happened!?” Nomin asked, attempting to keep any anger or panic free from her tone. The anger was easier to keep out than the panic, as it turned out.

“F-Fleur cut m-m-me!” the twin on the ground sobbed. Her arm was coated in scarlet, the other hand clamped over the wound and doing its best to keep pressure on it as Nomin and Estinien taught them in the past.

Letting out a sigh, Nomin hiked up her shorts and then knelt down next to Cyrielle, frowning as she looked over what she could. Holding out her hand, Nomin recalled how the aether felt when she focused on casting Vercure. As the aether pooled and created a healing white light accompanied by gentle wind, Nomin gently reached out with her other hand and placed it upon Cyrielle’s head.

“Come now… Let me see the wound so that my magicks can work more efficiently…” Nomin calmly instructed.

“I-I’m sorry, mama. I…I d-didn’t mean to…” Fleurette sniffled. She was rooted in place, her hands coming up to messily wipe away her tears.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to, Fleur,” Nomin replied. She kept her attention both on Cyrielle and keeping the flow of healing aether going. Seeing the cut for herself, finally, however, made Nomin give a silent sigh of relief. The cut was not too terribly deep -- deep enough to leave a scar, but not deep enough that some simple curative spells would not have done the trick overall.

Fleurette’s bottom lip trembled as she sniffled again and hesitantly said, “... I’m sorry, Cy.”

“You’re to apologize to your father as well when he returns home,” Nomin sternly said. “He will not be happy that Nidhogg has been taken from his armory for the type of play the two of you decided to get yourselves in.”

At this, Fleurette’s eyes widened as she blanched at the very thought.

“C’mon, Cyrielle, up we go. That should ease the pain for now, but we need to get you bandaged up…” Nomin said, slowly rising to her feet as she offered her hands to help Cyrielle up onto her own. All while sniffling and hiccuping, Cyrielle allowed Nomin to help her up. Meanwhile, Fleurette was still in stunned silence, her gaze having gone to the ground.

Walking over to the discarded Nidhogg, Nomin picked the lance up into her possession, frowning as she did so. She looked over at Fleurette and sighed once more. “I’m not even going to ask how you managed to get into your father’s armory. The important part is that your sister is not going to die, nor will she lose her arm, if you were ever worried about that. However…that does not change the fact that both of you will need to be punished somehow.”

“But it was an accident!” Fleurette sobbed, burying her head in her hands.

“Accident or no, you could have seriously harmed your sister, Fleurette. If not harm, then potentially have even paralyzed or even killed her with your father’s lance…” Nomin replied, keeping Nidhogg in her grasp as she placed her free hand on Cyrielle’s back. She was still babying her arm, though at least her wailing had died down to small hiccups and sniffling now that her arm had healing aether to aid her.

“Why am I…why am I b-being punished, too?” Cyrielle asked, taking in a stuttering breath as she bit back her crying.

Motioning the girls back toward the cabin, Nomin considered her words carefully. The experience was traumatic enough, surely, without her having to chastise or yell at them to get her point across. So…she finally gave her response: “you see, Cyrielle…even if you were the unfortunate victim in this bout of play with Fleurette, you still went with it. Both of you know that your father and I teach you what we can not so that you may play with one another with what you’ve learned, but so that you may defend yourselves or even each other should the time arise for such things.”

“But…you and father always look like you’re having fun when you fight…” Fleurette protested, folding her arms over her chest as she walked alongside the other two.

“Your father and I have spent many years of our lives training in our own ways and methods of combat. We know our limits,” Nomin replied. There was a moment where she paused, though she elaborated on her statement: “I was… Admittedly, I was made to learn combat against my will for much of what I know. Your father chose his combat lifestyle for his own reasons. I'm sure he’ll tell you once he feels you’re old enough, or the time is right.”

Once the garden was in view, Nomin urged Cyrielle forward and nodded to Fleurette to go into the house. Looking down at Nidhogg, Nomin’s expression grew distant before she frowned and tightened her grip upon the shaft. She felt his essence that still stained the steel, even after all these years. Likewise, she felt that familiar tug of malice and turmoil within the twins themselves.

It was nauseating at times, though Nomin shook her head and took the lance back inside. She glanced in the girls’ direction, noting how they had taken up their seats in the dining room. Satisfied for now, Nomin took Nidhogg and got it put away back in the somewhat sizable walk-in closet space that both Estinien and Nomin used for their arms and armor.

There was a moment where Nomin paused. She looked back to the armor that Estinien typically wore and placed her hand against the cool steel of it where one’s heart would be.

“... Ysayle…you would protect them, too, right?” Nomin softly asked. She knew her question would go unanswered, but she liked to believe that some trace of her lingered outside the aetherial sea. That she truly watched over them.

Dropping her hand back to her side, Nomin took one last look at the armor before leaving the room and making sure to lock the door behind her. Striding back into the dining room and then into the kitchen to retrieve a medical kit, Nomin placed it upon the counter while getting some soothing and healing salve, along with some bandages.

“Well, looks like you two are going to learn some basic triage today. We’ll discuss the punishments you two should have to do after I teach you both how to care for wounds without magic.”

#ffxiv #ffxiv writing #my writing #ffxiv oc #oc: nomin tal kheeriin #oc: bayarmaa / cyrielle varlineau #oc: chotan / fleurette varlineau #mentioned: estinien varlineau #mentioned: ysayle dangoulain #mentioned: nidhogg #cinnamon kiddos

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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 7 months

Text

When the Longing Returns

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

Chapter 7

Also read on AO3

Catch up here

Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Themes: Childhood trauma, guilt, confession, regret

Rating: M

Chapter Summary: In the tunnels, Erik confesses his violent past to Christine.

Chapter Word Count: 8,732

So another, what is this three months? My sincerest apologies for making you wait so long.

I have once again had to split the chapter, but I think I've found a very satisfactory cut off point.

This chapter is pretty hefty in both volume and content. I hope you'll all be pleased. Writing a character sharing their backstory is one of the toughest things to do. It's easy to write the speaker speaking, but significantly harder to convey the listener listening, but I hope I did an alright job. And if you feel like you want more insight into Christine's thoughts, don't worry, that'll come in the next chapter!

Also, we do have Depeche Mode References in here (boy do we--I mean how could we not? :3)

Many thanks as always to @l10ng1rl for your support even when you're uber busy, and to @itsdarogatimebitch for beta reading this chapter and for your generally wonderful feedback <3 <3 <3

Enjoy this Chapter with my custom Phantom's Lair soundscape!

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Christine was quite as still as a statue as this pronouncement fell, raw, from Erik's lips. Her heart thudded as icy needles pricked her spine and her stomach lurched.

The admission was undeniably shocking, though, truthfully, his words did not wholly surprise her. She had suspected, whenever she remembered the clean efficiency with which Buquet had been executed—so expertly handled that no one, not stage-crew nor dancer nor audience, had suspected what horror was occurring in the rafters of the stage until the body dropped, twitching, on that sickeningly taut rope—that the assassin who had carried out the deed must have done so many times before.

Yet hearing such a disclosure from lips that had, within the last hour, been pressed with such surpassing sweetness against hers was a difficult thing to comprehend.

Erik, feeling numb from his fatal admission, flinched from her stillness, and he again made to remove his hands from her, certain that she would not want them touching her any longer, now that she had an understanding of how very bloodstained they truly were.

But Christine's hand did not release his. He tried, again, to pull it away, and she clasped it still harder.

"Erik, tell me everything," she said, her voice so strained it was only a hoarse whisper. And yet her eyes did not accuse, nor her mouth twist with disgust.

This alone was nearly enough to bring Erik once more to tears. He gripped her hand in his, the other balling into a fist on his thigh as he prepared to obey her.

Christine’s other hand came up to his now, so that they both caged it, just as they had when she'd thrown herself onto the organ bench, when his music had so delighted her.

Her entire being felt tight and tense, apprehension bubbling inside her. The horror of Erik's actions had made her stumble in fear not two days ago—yet she felt bizarrely calm now as she held his guilty hand.

She pressed his fingers to her angel's lips and again whispered, so softly, "Please tell me."

Her breath, warm and gentle, puffed through his fingers as she spoke, and her eyes, troubled, but gently pleading, peeked over their joined hands.

A different kind of numbness—not numbness... Calm. Peace? Something foreign. Not an emotion he had experienced enough to correctly identify it—spread through Erik's chest as reality settled on him.

Christine would listen.

For years Erik had been the listening ear to whom Christine had bared her soul, while Erik himself had no similar confessor. And... if he could not confide in Christine, then who else would ever hear him? Did he have any choice but to go down on his knees and pray that she would have the strength to forgive all the things that he'd done?

It seemed so wrong to burden her with the afflictions of a loveless childhood and the crimes of a Godforsaken youth in the middle of a dark, damp tunnel.... Yet she knelt with him, held his hand with such an attitude of attentive sympathy! So ready to listen, to hear him...

That nameless sensation spread through his limbs and up to his head, bringing with it clarity. He looked down at her knees where they rested on the floor of the tunnel. Now he could feel the chill of the damp stone seeping into his own legs, and he could only imagine how cold it was for Christine in her thin cotton nightdress and negligée.

Christine was startled when he suddenly righted himself and made a decisive motion to stand and bring her up with him. With wide eyes, she watched as he unclasped his cloak, swept it off, and brought it around her shoulders. She hadn't realized how chilled she was, even with her shawl, until she felt the garment envelop her in its warm, heavy folds, the sudden shift in temperature eliciting a delayed shiver.

Erik's expression was inscrutable as he gathered up his gloves and the lantern with its two broken panes, setting it down next to the bottom of the staircase. He then took her, very gently, by her upper arms and guided her to sit on the steps, the thick woollen cloak protecting her from the chill of the stone.

Erik knelt on the floor to one side of her, his eyes fixed on her knees.

"How much did your—" he paused here, with a sigh—he did not want to offend Christine again by mocking the boy to her face—before resuming, "How much did the Vicomte tell you of what he learned about my past from Madame Giry?" he asked. His voice was strangely even and detached.

It galled Erik that he even had to ask her. No doubt, he thought, that the simpering jackanapes had taken great pleasure in painting Erik's history to further condemn him in Christine's eyes; a murderous imp locked in a cage—a mere child, but already more monster than man. Much good it had done him, he thought, with an internal smirk.

Erik knew that some conversation had passed between the two. The Vicomte had found Christine huddled on the front steps of the opera house with little Meg, following his little tête-á-tête with the latter's mother.

Erik had seen it all, but from the rooftop; and even his superb hearing could not cut through the din of New Year's Eve in Paris to capture what was being said in hushed voices ten stories below. Erik strove not to remember the surge of jealous rage that had overtaken him as he had watched the Chagny boy put his dolman around Christine and hold her as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Christine was a little surprised at Erik's question. She had always thought of him as being absolutely omniscient. She had assumed that, somehow, he had heard all that Raoul had related to her. But then, she supposed even the Opera Ghost might not hear what was said outside of the Opera house's walls.

"Only that you were kept in a cage in a travelling circus, and Madame Giry helped you escape," she replied. "And that she hid you in the opera cellars, and you've never known anything outside since..."

"Is that truly all he told you?"

So the Vicomte hadn't spoken of the murder at all then?

"Yes. That's all," she confirmed, now certain, from Erik's response, that Raoul had withheld some details of importance. A twinge of irritation passed through her. "There's more he didn't tell me, isn't there?" she asked quietly, an edge to her voice.

Erik could not help the little sound of dark humour that escaped him. "Yes, Christine... yes, there was more..."

A moment of silence as Erik gathered his thoughts, steeling himself against the heavy sense of trepidation that threatened, like a disease, to take hold of his tongue.

Doing his level best to shake it away, he said, "I will tell you all, Christine," his even tone trembling a little. "I only ask that you.... that you try to be gentle in your judgement of me."

He chanced to look up at Christine, dared to meet her gaze, and felt a profound sense of nudity; as though her rich, dark eyes would draw the truth out of him and into their depths with an irresistible gravity. Hers was not a piercing gaze, but a haling one.

Once caught by that gaze, he found that it held him, and he could not look away.

"I was born in a village near Rouen," he began simply. "My father was a very skilled masonry contractor. He was much away from home because of his work, which was just the way he preferred it after I was born. He never saw me; and my mother," his mouth twisted around this word with an unnatural degree of both anguish and distaste, "gave me a mask so that she would not have to, if she could help it. I don't remember a time when I didn't wear one.

"I told you she resented me, but that was not the extent of it, Christine; she feared me—loathed me, even. I think she viewed me as her own personal demon; a curse sent by God, which she endured for some sin she felt she had committed. I couldn't tell you for certain, for she never told me.

"I was kept hidden—no one else but the priest, her confessor, knew that I existed; she had let it on that I died after the birth."

He paused, but he was still unable to look away from Christine's eyes—still felt their irresistible pull, and soon yielded to it.

"She would often sing while she worked in the house, my mother," he continued. "She would sing to fill the silence... And I would hear her every day, and listened to all that beautiful music, and learned, in quietness, every word of every song. Because, you see, I learned very young that she did not like when I called for her; and I hoped that if I could sing to her, that she might then hear me a little more willingly. The first time I sang, I think, was the first time she ever voluntarily looked at me. I have to think, to hope, that if my mother ever felt some kind of tenderness toward me, it was when I sang to her.

"Oh, she never looked at me without my mask. She would glance at me, constantly, with terror, checking to ensure that it was still in place. And she never kept from me the reason why I had to wear it, or why I couldn't go outside during the day. She told me it was for my own good, and that people would hate me if they ever saw me. I had no reason to disbelieve her.

"But... I think that my singing was what made it possible for her to endure raising me as long as she did...

"And one day I was singing as she did needlepoint, and she let me come so close to her chair... I thought... that she might allow me to give her a kiss...

"I was sometimes taken to looking through a little gap in the curtains, and I had seen other children out with their mothers. Little boys my age who would pick the yellow flowers that grew by the well and give them to their mothers with a kiss on the cheek. But my mother... I stood by her chair, and I lifted my mask... just to my lips, Christine, just to my lips..." he demonstrated by holding his hand level to his upper lip “... Just to give her a small kiss, and she..." Erik shook, his head falling forward, near to Christine's knees, as though he might rest his forehead against them. But he did not. He held his head at that stiff angle, shaking, and Christine could not tell if it was rage or sorrow which caused him to tremble. Then she wondered if the emotions had not so long been mingled for him in these memories as to be indistinguishable from one another. Christine felt tightness beginning to choke in her throat, her face tensed with emotion as he continued.

"She threw me away from her," he forced the words out and they fell from his mouth, as if they were bitter food he could not bear to swallow and must therefore spit out. "And she screamed," he ground this out through his teeth, "so loudly, and told me never to touch her. It was not the first time she had told me this, but it would be the last.

"A neighbour had heard that scream, and my mother hid me while she told the neighbour that it was because there was a rat in the pantry... in the pantry where she had hidden me."

His head rose now, and he looked at Christine again, his eyes steely and fierce.

"And as I was crouched in that pantry, I knew that I could no longer endure it. I could no longer stand to be the burden of my poor, unhappy mother, and it was that same night that I broke the locks and ran away.

"It was late summer. I think it was near the time of my birthday.... I had gradually come to realize, not the exact date, but the time of year when I was born, because of the way my mother behaved.

There was always a week in early August when she... was worse than usual... and I came to assume that these bouts must mark when I was born. I don't know for certain how old I was. Seven, perhaps eight."

Now his expression softened slightly, and his eyes seemed distant; still looking into hers, but seeing past them also.

"I had practically never been outside before, Christine," he whispered. "I hardly knew what it was like to feel a breeze across my skin. Or grass between my toes. And that night... that night when I ran away, I was full of pain and anger, but the night that I ran out into was so full of beauty. Outside, the air was sweet, and cool and fresh. Everything smelled... natural. And the stars, Christine," he breathed, eyes filled with a ghost of some long-ago wonderment as his hands suddenly came up to lay upon her knees. "So many stars.... Do you know what it's like to see the expanse of the sky, and all the real stars, and understand for the first time that they truly twinkle? There was so much beauty around me in that darkness..."

Christine's heart swelled with the melancholy beauty of Erik's recollection, her hands inching close to his where they rested on her knees as a sad smile pulled at her lips.

"I wandered along the road for days. I would walk during the night, and hide during the day, sleeping in hedgerows and ditches. After days—I lost count of them—with no food, one evening I found I had not even the strength to move from the hedge I'd been sleeping in.

"That was how the gypsies found me. A traveling circus; tumblers, conjurers... human oddities.... One of them took my mask off. I expected screams, but they laughed. They gave me food, and when they packed up the camp, they packed me up with it.

"I didn't know, then, that making men laugh—and women scream, and children cry—was the price I would pay for every subsequent meal, no matter how pitiful, for years to come.

"As you know, I was kept in a cage. My handler billed me as 'The Devil's Child'. I came to find a certain unintended irony in that moniker, for I belonged to my handler; and he, as far as I was concerned was the devil.

"I was fed, of course, but only just enough. If the paying was good, I was fed better, if not.... For a time, I hardly ate at all because my keeper had the idea to increase the spectacle of horror by giving me a more skeletal appearance. I nearly died. He abandoned the scheme then. He couldn't afford that; I was too valuable.

"This, then, was my life, Christine. For five years I was starved, and exposed, and beaten."

Christine flinched at this last word.

"Yes, Christine," he said, his voice low and dark. "I was beaten.

"I survived out of spite. It was all I could do... until an idea came into my head. Someone had dropped a piece of rope outside my cage, just close enough for me to reach. I kept it tied to one of the bars for weeks. And then, that night..."

He paused again, and his hands clenched at his sides. Dread filled Christine's stomach as she watched his jaw tensing in the gloomy silence of the tunnel.

Erik was seized with apprehension as he perpended the approaching admission of his first crime.

It had been, in his opinion, justified, and he still felt no personal guilt or regret for his first murder; yet confessing it to Christine filled him with cold dread. Surely she would find it unutterably perverse, the idea of a child wilfully taking a life.

"I was perhaps twelve when I first committed murder, Christine," his voice was a leaden whisper, sombre, and heavy, and fearful. "I killed my handler. Madame Giry witnessed it. I strangled him with that piece of rope as he counted his money."

He remembered vividly how the coarse fibres of the rope had chafed his hands as he pulled it tight with every ounce of strength his malnourished little body could muster. That he, in his condition, had conjured the strength and endurance to strangle a full-grown man more than twice his own size was a feat that Erik himself had never fully been able to understand. Perhaps it was rage which had given him the strength, and desperation the stamina.

Erik’s eyes were downcast. He could not look at Christine, though he could feel her eyes on him, pulling him. He was terrified to give into their influence now; he could not bear to think what horror he might find there, so he was entirely unprepared for the sudden impact which followed.

Nearly knocked backwards by the force of it, it was several moments before Erik was able to process what the cause of that impact had been, or what was the source of the tight, warm coil which now squeezed his shoulders and waist with such pressure.

It was Christine, who had thrown herself from her perch on the step and wrapped her trembling arms about him, pressing her face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

She wanted to say something; to speak some sentiment of sympathy, but she had no words. She did not know what she could possibly say. What words in any language could counterbalance such a degree of suffering? An exigency so terrible that it had driven a boy—just a child—to commit an act of such monumental desperation in order to escape it?

And so, unable to speak comfort to him, she simply held him. She pressed herself against him, into him, around him, her chest so full of violent compassion that releasing it in the form of exertion to engird his hunching frame with her arms seemed absolutely necessary in order to keep herself from falling apart.

There was no possibility of misinterpreting Christine's action; even Erik could not misattribute this strength with which she crushed herself into him to revulsion, fear, or reproach. He yearned to lift his hand and cradle the back of her head, to turn his face into her soft, fragrant hair, but was too stunned at her reaction to move.

"Oh, Erik..." she whispered, sounding heartbroken as she shook against him.

This, then, was the extent of what Raoul had learned from Madame Giry? These were the details that he had kept from her? Christine had much to think about on that regard, but she couldn't. Not now, overwhelmed as she was with loving pity for Erik's dark fate.

She felt Erik's mass in the iron bands of her hold. He had not moved at all as she embraced him, except to steady himself at the moment of impact, and she wondered—worried—whether this had, perhaps, not been the right thing to do.

A little timidly, she lifted her face from his shoulder to look at him, her eyes swimming, and Erik, still frozen in his shock, realized that Christine was crying.

Crying for him.

And upon this revelation, he, too, began to weep. Tears stung, and gathered, and fell from his eyes; and Christine whispered his name again, rising higher on her knees so that she could take his head in her hands and bring her lips to his forehead as they cried together. Her tears, warm and sweet, dripped onto his skin and trickled under his mask.

She, Christine, the true angel—who had sought after his kisses, when his own mother had never even tolerated them—she was weeping for his sake.

Her blessed tears mingled with his under his mask, and they flowed down to his lips. He tasted them, and it seemed to him as though their salt water was life-giving.

He wished that he could stay in this attitude forever; not move, not tell her the rest of his tale. But more and more of her tears flowed down, seeping under the edges of the covering, which he felt beginning to slip from its place.

His head suddenly jerked from her gentle hold. Christine no longer felt Erik's skin against her lips, and she saw that he had turned his face from her, with his hand on his mask.

"Do not look, Christine," he said, his voice shaky.

In a heartbeat, Christine understood and obeyed, turning her face away and looking up into the dark well of the stairs. Not because she did not want to see his face; not because she feared to; but because he asked it of her.

Erik wiped the inside of his mask dry, then dabbed his sleeve over the misshapen plains of the right side of his face, though he was loathe to lose even one of her precious tears. His chest felt tight as he replaced the device and gathered himself.

Christine was still gently sobbing, her body twisted away from him at the waist, when he turned around. He reached for her, touching her arm, and she turned back to him, brushing her slim, white fingers across her eyes and cheeks again and again, unable to keep the tears from gathering.

The sight made it difficult for Erik to continue. He pressed his lips together, bowing his head, like an ashamed child.

After several moments in this attitude, Christine's stomach began to twist uncomfortably. She knew he had not finished with his story, and he seemed to be struggling. She inched closer to him, fitting herself to his side, and stretched her arm across his shoulders, wrapping him with her in the warmth of his cloak before drawing him with her toward the stairs.

"Come sit with me," she whispered softly, an earnest plea.

Once again, he obeyed and allowed Christine to bustle him along to sit next to her on the step where she huddled close to him, her warmth inescapable. Yet her caring sweetness filled Erik with apprehension; he had never before known what it was like to have someone whose opinion of him mattered enough for him to care whether he might disappoint them, and he feared disappointing Christine now. But, he reminded himself, he had already confessed the quantity of his crimes to her; now, she was owed the details.

Christine’s hand drifted uncertainly near his, where they rested on his lap. Twice since they had begun this fraught interlude he had tried to pull his hands from her grasp, and both times she had refused to release them. She wanted to hold them again, to assure him, yet she also feared that if she attempted to do so now, shame might overcome him and compel him to flee her touch again.

She wrapped her hands cautiously around his arm, and looked up at him, her expression mild.

"What happened then?" she asked as evenly as she could, her gaze fixing on his face as she gently squeezed his forearm in a reassuring gesture.

He closed his eyes for a moment. She was clutching his arm, yet the comforting pressure seemed, rather, to be closing around his heart, overwhelming in its gentleness. It disordered his thoughts, and his jaw clenched as he attempted to focus them again; to remember where he had stopped in his grim history.

"Then... it was just a few moments before the crime was discovered. To be truthful, I don't remember much of what actually happened. Only that Mathilde... Madame Giry, that is..."

Christine nodded, though it struck her that, in all her years of being raised by the woman, she'd never actually heard anyone call Mme. Giry by her Christian name.

Erik continued: "Mathilde must have acted very quickly. All I really recall is her taking my hand, and then the grate into the chapel creaking as it opened, and I jumped through.

"I don't pretend to understand why she helped me, nor do I question it. She provided me the materials necessary to finish my education. I learned very quickly; and in the meantime, I became familiar with the complex inner workings of my new home. This building...” his gaze drifted up, to the arched ceiling of the tunnel, as if he could see through it to the Opera above, “it fascinated me. I remembered all of the sketches and blueprints in my father's office that I had perused as a young child. My mother had been... disturbed that I seemed to understand them at such an early age. She'd tried to lock them away, but I always found them again. Architecture became a passion for me, and this building was my first and best master in that discipline. Fitting that it was, itself, a monument to my truest and greatest passion; that of Music.

"Six years passed, and in that time, I gained a knowledge of the Opera house that I daresay not even its architect possessed, and wrote more masterpieces than most composers hope to in a lifetime. And yet my creations weighed on me. As much joy and fulfilment as I experienced in creating them, once each was finished, I was faced with the increasingly painful truth that no one, save for myself, and perhaps Mathilde, would ever hear them. It was impossibly confounding for me, Christine. My fear and general hatred of mankind, I'm sure you can understand, was deeply entrenched. And yet, I could not abandon the idea, the hope, that my music could move the hearts of men, though it was poisoned with the horrible certainty that, just as with my mother, even the beauty of my talents would not be able to spare me their rejection and scorn.

"In all those six years, Mathilde was my only direct human contact. And though she kept me in all the necessities of life, it soon became clear that whatever pity had motivated her to feed and clothe me was rivalled by an instinctive fear. Whether because of this," he gestured vaguely to his face, "or the murder I haven't any idea. I believe she felt a sense of," he chuckled darkly, "responsibility for my actions in addition to my general well-being. I was a dark and well-guarded secret. She could easily have washed her hands of me and yet she did not, even as her time became continually more consumed by the demands of her career.

“At sixteen she was, without doubt, the finest ballerina this Opera has ever seen, before or since, and the management were not blind to her merit. By eighteen she was made a principal dancer..."

Erik paused for a moment, considering how best to handle the next passage in this story where Mathilde was concerned. He disliked the idea of keeping details from Christine, as the Vicomte had done. But these details were not precisely pertinent to his own story, and were not his to share.

"Two years later, though," he resumed, "she left the stage and married.

"Despite my distaste for mankind and my preference for solitude, her company, scarce and fraught as it was, was missed.

"I was a youth—perhaps eighteen or nineteen, then—full of energy I could barely contain, with an intellect that was, though I say it myself, already vast, and hungry to expand still further. I lusted after knowledge and practical experience, and while I had made what I could of my home, it was not enough.

"And so, after months of struggling with my own mind, I left my home. I left the Opera Populaire and I left France."

"Madame Giry told the Vicomte that I have never known life outside of this Opera house. Well, as far as she knows, that is the truth. But I have already told you, Christine, of my work for the Shah of Persia..." his voice faltered as he caught the dull glint of his ring on Christine’s finger and an impulsive hand reached out to brush a fingertip over the stone.

Christine held very still as he initiated this pensive contact, breathing carefully, as if frightened of disturbing a butterfly that had landed on her hand.

"And now... I will tell you how it was that I found myself there...” he said in a soft tone, before continuing bitterly, “and how I left.” Erik paused, gauging Christine’s expression.

Anxiety shot through her now, for she sensed, from Erik’s gravity, that the worst of his tale was quickly approaching. She feared what she may hear, but determined that she would not make any judgement or comment until she had heard all that Erik had to tell.

She swallowed and nodded, as if to say that she was ready to listen.

Breathing deeply, Erik recommenced his narrative: “For two years I travelled; first throughout Europe. Even setting aside my... disadvantage, I was too old for anyone to consider taking me as an apprentice. I gained experience through contract work. Masonry, carpentry, joinery, metalwork; whatever I set my hands to seemed to come naturally, and so skilfully. No one who saw my work could question my competency, and yet it usually paid for less than half what it was worth and was rejected often for reasons... shall we say, 'superficial'.

"Fortunately, I discovered that sleight of hand came as naturally to me as honest skill had, so when the latter could not provide for me, I resorted to the former.

"After a year of—forgive my use of the term—prostituting my craftsmanship and struggling in polite—” he sneered this word—"European society, I turned my attention to knowledge and antiquity and found myself traveling as far East as India. During this time, I expanded my knowledge of medicine and the sciences, and merged those talents to become a proficient magician, the likes of which had never been seen in either Asia or Europe.

"I displayed these talents in fairs throughout Eastern Europe and Russia. I found a certain cynical humour in the fact that sleight of hand paid better than honest craftsmanship had. And it was my remarkable talent for legerdemain that brought my existence to the attention of the Shah-in-Shah.

“I was brought down from Ninji-Novgorod, in Russia, on the testimony of a Samarkand fur trader; at first purely as an entertainment for the Shah's favourite who was 'withering away' of boredom. She delighted in entertaining deceptions, the 'Little Sultana'," he said, his voice tinged with contempt.

"But it was not long before the Shah discovered that I also possessed genius in areas that would be useful to himself.

"Of course, my hidden face was of paramount curiosity to both of them. The Sultana I never did indulge, despite her frequent insistences that I show my face to her.

"But the Shah, despite that devouring curiosity I could see in his eyes whenever I was in his presence, surprised me by never demanding that I reveal it. It was astonishing to me. Every day I waited for that order to come, and every day, to my growing relief, it did not. The only subjects he ever broached with me were pleasantries regarding my satisfaction with my accommodations, and the architectural endeavours he wished me to undertake. After a while, the Little Sultana even stopped her incessant pouting and begging, I discovered, on his solemn orders.

"He commissioned me to make alterations to his Palace at Mazenderan. I was given immense power, and, for a time, my word was law. Those who defied my authority or who were heard to insult me behind my back were punished as severely as if they had insulted the Shah himself. And it soon became easier than ever to discover when such insults were being uttered, with the alterations I made to the palace.

"At the Shah's request, I devised secret passages, made use of hollowed bricks and trapdoors... hundreds of them. By the time I had finished, the Shah had given me a nickname: 'Derb Mekhefa Met'eseb' which, roughly translated, means 'Trapdoor Lover'.

"Soon there was scarcely a room in the entire building where a word could be uttered without being overheard. I daresay I was responsible for numerous little tragedies through my trapdoors alone. I was extremely receptive to all of the Shah's commissions."

Erik lifted his eyes, which, thus far had been fixed on Christine’s hand, to her face. Her expression was intent, as though determined to retain every word he spoke to her. His hand still rested next to hers on her knee, and he feared to move it.

Christine, meanwhile, fixed her gaze on his face while it was turned to her and memorized each line in his brow which was furrowed over his anxious, pleading eyes.

"You cannot understand what this time was like for me, Christine," he said earnestly. "I had been rejected by my parents, scorned and mocked across Europe; but here... here, it seemed, I had a patron who saw beyond my face; who appreciated my genius and skill for all it was worth. For the first time in my life, Christine, I felt that I was valued for myself; as a thinking, intelligent man, and not merely a freak or a sorcerer." He dared to take her hand now, raising it and holding it tightly.

"This ring was the first payment I ever received from the Shah for my first project: a hall of illusion he had commissioned to celebrate the anniversary of his marriage to the Little Sultana. He had brought a selection of his personal rings for me to choose from. I was stunned beyond speech. I couldn't imagine choosing one for myself, so he ended by ordering his Chief of Police to select one for me.

"Not only valued, but I was extolled. Think of it, Christine—barely twenty years old and my talents had made me very nearly the most powerful man in the court of the Shah-in-Shah. I was afforded power, wealth...

"I did not endear myself to anyone but the Shah and the Little Sultana. Numerous attempts were made on my life. Assassins were commissioned by various players at court whose noses my seemingly omniscient presence had put out of joint. One assassin was audacious enough to attack me even as I was entertaining the Little Sultana and her ladies in the garden.

"I was no stranger to killing by that point, even setting aside my... early experience. During my travels, I had often been beset on the roads by bandits. It was in India that I had discovered my particular skill with the lasso. It had saved my life on many occasions, and so I took to carrying one on my person at all times; and on this occasion it saved my life again.

"The Sultana was..." Erik struggled to find a word that could convey that woman's hideous delight at his talent for murder without being forced to expose Christine, even anecdotally, to that particular brand of obscenity. His skin crawled at the very idea. He had sworn himself to be truthful, but did not see that it would benefit Christine to be gratuitous. "She was impressed... most favourably impressed... by the proficiency with which I dispatched my assailant. In fact, soon after this episode she quickly began to tire of my usual exhibitions of magic and illusion. She, instead, began to ask for further demonstrations of my skill with the lasso. And I obliged her."

Erik paused, feeling hot waves of shame engulf him, and, realizing that his hands were shaking, gripped his knees to conceal their trembling; but Christine had already noticed.

"She would have prisoners brought to a locked courtyard, whence she and her ladies could observe, and arm them with a pike and a sword. She would then have me, armed only with my lasso, enter the courtyard, and battle them to the death. It became her favourite entertainment.

"Most of the men sent to face me had already been sentenced to death—my skill was such that this was simply the chosen manner of execution.... Most, not all; but that was not something I considered until later. At the time... at the time, I simply did not care.

"The Shah, recognizing the efficiency of my chosen methods, and discovering that I had considerable knowledge, too, of poisons, soon engaged me as his own personal assassin. I unquestioningly participated in a number of political assassinations.”

Erik's voice felt heavy and thick as he spoke, filled with distaste and shame. He felt a horrible sense of unravelling at how still Christine was beside him. Throughout she had not moved or made a single sound, and Erik did not know whether, if he chanced a look at her now—even just a glance—he would ever be able to finish his confessions. And now that he had begun, he could not bear to stop until all had been laid out for her judgment.

"Christine, I..." Erik's voice trembled, struggling to know whether to look at her, or away. He settled on looking away, and then immediately felt like a coward. How could he ever hope for her trust if he could not look her in the eye while he confessed his sins? Swallowing hard, he forced his head up and met her gaze, which was baleful but otherwise unfathomable. Erik was unsure whether that was more terrifying to face than overt disgust, or less.

"I will not lie to you and say that I did not derive a... well, a certain... satisfaction from these murders. It was not the same... pleasure that I believe gratified the Little Sultana as she watched me strangle convicts in her courtyard,” he insisted desperately, in the manner with which a man facing a death sentence might plead his case before a magistrate. “But every successful mission was congratulated, praised, and rewarded. I had no love for mankind. The human race had never given me reason to care; it had rejected me, shunned me, exploited and trampled me. I was angry, and I was hateful, and I was good at killing. I had become so acclimated to it in so often defending myself that it had seemed almost a skill like any other I set my hand to. It simply came... easily. I imagine it comes less naturally to those with incentive to value the lives of others. But for one such as myself... it took almost nothing for me to separate myself from the act. I found little difference between those men and the animals I had killed for my supper on the roads. I felt that I owed nothing to the human race, because it had denied me as one of its own.”

All of this was spoken while Erik gazed, transfixed, on the smooth, sorrowful mask that Christine was wearing. Unable to endure it any longer, Erik looked away again, fighting the impulse to simply hide his face in his hands.

"I believe the Shah recognized all of this. Politically he was—is—rather weak, but he was capable of being highly perceptive when he wanted to. He fostered and fed my worst proclivities for his gain, the same as the Sultana did for her pleasure. And I was so blinded by his apparent acceptance of me that I was unable to see this.

"For nearly two years this epoch of decadence and death continued. Early in the second year, the Little Sultana had me make alterations to her palace of illusion, of which she had begun to grow bored. No longer interested in the mere illusions of my creation herself, she decided that instead she should like it to be converted into a torture chamber; her little gladiator matches, too, had begun to lose their interest. I arranged it so that the roof over one of the rooms could be retracted, allowing the sun to super-heat the mirrors that lined the room. The heat and the illusions combined to make the subjects of the torture completely lose their senses, until they either perished of the heat or took their own lives. The idea was the Sultana's, but the methods I devised myself. It was the most abominable feat of genius I had ever constructed. Thus far."

Here, Erik paused and did, for a moment, press his forehead into his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. Then he gathered himself, and, with a deep breath, straightened his back and looked forward into the darkness.

"The Shah was pleased that the Sultana now had a method of... entertainment... that no longer required my presence. It was around this time that I devised a blueprint for a palace on the concept of a trick box, which I knew would please the Shah. A whole palace designed to allow him to move freely within the walls without ever being seen or heard. He immediately commissioned its construction and was glad to know that I would be able to entirely devote myself to the project.

"I, too, was glad of it. I had begun to feel that the talents I wished to grow, my talents of creation, were beginning to stagnate, and the senseless brutality that delighted the Sultana had begun to grow... wearying. I had felt myself, for some months, becoming ever more restless. I slept less than usual (which had never been very much to begin with) and lost nearly all of my already infrequent appetite; I felt that this new palace, a project of construction, something to build, would be the thing to bring me back to myself... or as close to 'myself' as I had ever felt.

"I became consumed by it. Enslavement to my work seemed to free my mind, and I entered into a period of manic creation. I went many nights without sleep, continuing to build even after all the workers had retired to bed. Had I been less absorbed, I might have been better able to see the changes that were taking place around me.

"You see, I had also failed to understand that, in speeding along the construction of the trick box palace, I was hastening my own fall.

“When the palace was nearly complete—in almost half the expected time—the Shah invited me to have supper with him, to congratulate my latest feat of genius. All was as usual, jokes, jovial conversation, praise for my artistry...

"And then came the order that I had feared since my arrival; which I, like a fool, had only just ceased to anticipate. He 'requested' that I show him my face. And I knew, from the look in his eye, behind that mask of avuncular good humour, that this was an order. And one that I was not in a position to refuse."

Erik's face became very dark now, and when he next spoke it was so soft that Christine, her stomach clenching at the shadow that had passed over his countenance, had to lean close to discern the words.

"I shall never forget what that man said to me," Erik whispered. "First he grimaced, then laughed. Both reactions I had long since grown accustomed to, though they seemed to sting in a way they never had before. But then... then he said—" here, Erik assumed a singularly mocking tone, made all the more terrible by its mean-spirited jocularity—“'There, now! you are quite the Don Juan I would say. Any woman that ever saw you would be yours forever. She'd never be able to get that face out of her head.'” And then he laughed again and told me to cover myself."

Christine sat paralyzed, haunted; for the Shah's cruel humour seemed, to her, a terrible foreshadowing of her own hateful words.

Can I ever escape from that face?

Guilt pooled sickly in her stomach, and she crossed her arms over her abdomen, leaning into them in an attempt to ease the discomfort. Erik was not looking at her now; he was lost in the bitter memory, and she thanked God that he seemed not to notice her reaction, for after a brief but most grievous silence, Erik pressed on with his recollections.

"I then finally began to realize all that I had wilfully ignored for so long. I began also, to realize what the Shah's request meant: that he had always intended to have his curiosity satisfied, and had only waited until such a time as he would no longer need to appease me.

"The Daroga, that very Chief of Police who had chosen my ring for me, had seen all of this with the clarity of experience. He was often in company with me. Not of his own will, of course. He had been assigned as my shadow from the beginning. I did not look askance at this, as I soon learned that everyone at the Palace had a shadow. Even some of the shadows had shadows. But though he had no choice in how he spent his time, we built a kind of rapport with each other. He was not much older than I. Though he lacked much of a sense of humour, he did not want for wit, and I recall him procuring a hearty laugh from me on more than one occasion.

"I was, it transpired, fortunate that he had been assigned as my watcher—perhaps the one individual in the entire court with a sense of scruple. He had tried many times to warn me of my folly, and went unheeded at every turn.”

Erik remembered, with an awful, vivid clarity, the occasion when the Daroga had first confronted him with his warnings; how he had ignored him, and the Daroga had grasped his forearm, saying, “You must know that these rosy hours will not last, Erik!” with that pragmatic indignation he wore so well; and how he, Erik, had shaken him off with the hubristic sneer of the power-drunk.

“But it was to him, as the Daroga of Mazenderan,” Erik continued, “that the order for my arrest fell when the Shah was satisfied with his completed palace. In possession of such a gem, he did not want to risk my replicating it for anyone else. At first, as I was told, he had simply intended to have my eyes plucked out, but thinking better of it, he decided that my knowledge of his palaces must be destroyed completely—my sentence was death.”

At this word, Christine finally responded. Her careful mask did not budge, but she, seemingly on instinct, clutched his hand, as if she feared that the recollection of a death sentence which he had quite obviously escaped could still harm him. Erik’s heart could not help but warm at this reaction, and he took courage from it, returning the pressure.

"Daroga helped me to escape,” he went on, “—I suppose in return for my once having saved his life—but on one condition. 'No more murders.'"

Erik looked at the green tones in the alexandrite stone on Christine’s hand and remembered, with a slight smile, how serious the Persian's jade eyes had been as he had uttered those words with a raised finger.

"I had never believed in making or keeping oaths and agreed to this one without much real intention of putting any stock in it. The likelihood of him ever finding me to hold me to it was very slim. It has been thirteen years, and still, I have no idea if he's even alive. I suspect that his connection to the royal family was just close enough to protect him from execution, and that he was likely exiled, but the devil knows what became of him then."

Christine, observing Erik's expression intently, did not think that she was imagining the subtle trace of regret in his voice. She, herself, wondered where this Daroga was now, and if she would ever have the opportunity to thank him for saving Erik's life.

"I returned, as directly as possible, to Paris. Here, to the only safe place I had ever known. I kept my word, though less out of a sense of obligation, and more simply because I neither needed nor wanted to commit any murders.

“The realization of the Shah's exploitation of my talent for strangling had thoroughly soured any sense of enjoyment I had achieved from it. Only threat of exposure seemed a great enough reason to take lives now, and no one knew enough of the Opera's hidden inner workings to pose a threat of exposing me.

"I was determined to make for myself a proper haven where I could devote myself to music. The Opera house was, at that time, undergoing renovations, making it easy for me to go about preparing a home for myself undetected. I then determined to build a pipe organ—the only instrument I felt could accurately support the titanic music which I intended to write. That required some funds.

"I had returned to find the Opera Populaire under new management and it was not long before I observed that the new directors, Debienne and Poligny, were far less competent than those who had advanced real talent and taste. Not unlike our present management,” he added under his breath. “In addition to that, I soon discovered that Poligny had, for some time, been defrauding Debienne in their private business ventures, among other... 'indiscretions'. I was fortunate to also discover that he was quite superstitious."

"For years there had been rumours that the opera was haunted—many had begun in those early months when I was still exploring the secret passages and had not yet learned to be so perfectly invisible—and it was this that gave me a singular idea.

"By means of ventriloquism, I let Poligny know, in no uncertain terms, that the Opera was indeed haunted, and that the Ghost knew and saw all—including the skeletons in his armoire. Within a week, OG had sent his inaugural note, and Poligny, sufficiently spooked, needed no further prodding to comply. If he seemed in danger of forgetting, the Opera Ghost would swiftly remind him.

"It was less than a year after I had returned when Mathilde, now widowed with a young daughter, also returned to the Opera seeking employment. She could not return to the stage, but she could instruct. Debienne and Poligny very nearly turned her away on account of her sex, but they were soon made to see reason. She had, after all, been the one of most celebrated principal dancers the Opera had seen in years.

“She knew me well enough to understand who the Opera Ghost was as soon as the stories reached her. We kept our distance, but she was amenable to assisting my scheme. The pittance of a salary she was provided by the opera would have been just enough to live on, but with a daughter to provide for as well, the cut of profits I made available to her was more than welcome.

"Thus, all was in place for me to settle into a, more or less, comfortable isolation; to commence my vocation to music, and to begin what I determined would be my magnum opus: Don Juan Triumphant.

“I worked by fits and starts, composing for weeks at a time, during which I hardly ate or slept and lived only on my music. Then for months I would find I couldn't bear to touch it. And so, it was for almost two years, this angry cycle. I had no expectation of any interruption, and was almost pleased at that idea.

"Until," Erik turned his head and looked at Christine with a most indescribable expression; a sort of blissful mingling of tenderness and agony, "the dearest and most precious disruption, which I never could have imagined, altered my plans entirely."

~~~

Author's Notes

#phantom of the opera fanfiction #poto fanfiction #poto fic #erik x christine #erik/christine #e/c #poto e/c #erik the phantom #christine daae #eristine #poto 2004 #gerik #when the longing returns #wtlr

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fangedjustice · 9 months

Text

Balanced Blade

Swordmaster Mastery WC: 855

True masters of the sword had always come from Sacae.

Bern was home to many a soldier and mercenary, and many of them were accomplished fighters. But there was a difference in intent between Bernese warriors and Sacaen.

Bern was a harsh place built on strength and endurance, a land of conquer or be crushed under the boot of someone else. They were flanked by Lycia and Sacae, their backs to the cold sea; they had no easy outlet should war come to them, nor did they have such ready allies as other countries might be able to broker. Their defense was reliant on being the strongest military force around, challenged only by Etruria on their own.

Bern’s warriors were brutal and efficient. Combat was a way of life, not an artform. Might made right, and so long as you won, that was the end of it. An axe was brutal, a spear was efficient…but the sword – there was a flow, an art, a dance to picking up a blade.

Lloyd had grown up surrounded by skilled fighters. His father and mother had always been prime examples, though his mother had let her sword lay at rest by the time he entered the picture. But there had been others as well, men and women that his father had worked with for many years. His father had tried to teach him the axe, the bow – he wasn’t incapable of picking them up, but they didn’t hold his interest quite as much as the sword did. One of his happiest days as a boy had been when his father had given him a training sword, simple and carved of sturdy wood but beautiful in his eyes.

He learned the basics from several in his father’s group, Brendan putting him through his paces when he had the time. When Linus was old enough, they went at each other like young animals play-fighting to hone their skills. He excelled in what they had to teach him, and it became clear that as he got older, progressed more, he was moving beyond what they could impart. He did not simply want to wield a sword as a tool to kill, he wanted to move with it as if it were another part of his body.

Sacae was just to the north of Bern, wide plains of green and bright open skies. Masters of mounted archery and flawless swordsmanship. They had no cramped and cluttered cities, their many tribes remaining primarily nomadic where other countries had largely settled in place. Outside of trade through Bulgar, Sacae seemed so far removed from the likes of Bern and Lycia, let alone Etruria or Ilia. Their warriors were not motivated by coin or expansion, and it showed in how and why they fought.

Their mounted combat was legendary, standing out amongst wyvern and pegasi riders as well as similarly horse mounted armies. But it was their swordsmen and women, not quite as widespread as their troopers, that Lloyd wished to pursue.

A Bernese warrior could wield a sword, but a Sacaen warrior could be called nothing short of a swordmaster.

Tracking them down was difficult enough, but getting them to teach him their ways was another challenge altogether. It had taken him months to even get the first to see what his current skills were, and it had taken double that time to be considered a worthy enough opponent to face off with them and actually learn their techniques.

But Lloyd wanted it, wanted it more than anything else – though it sat somewhat guilty in his gut to say so.

His father took his skills with a blade proudly, believing that he was striving so hard in order to join Brendan in his endeavors. And that was partly his motivation, but it was the lesser of two halves. Lloyd didn’t have the heart to correct his father’s prideful expression or remarks.

It was a selfish pursuit, a passion. Even as a boy just learning, he had fallen in love with the give and take of swordplay. The flair, the careful but swift movements. It wasn’t just slashing, stabbing, blunt brute force to win. Every action had to have a purpose, had to be smooth, thought out. You weren’t just fighting to win or survive, you were falling into a seamless place that connected the body, mind and spirit all at once.

To him, it was the peak.

It took time to merge the two styles, the power of Bern and the mastery of Sacae. It was the longest time he’d ever spent away from home, from his family, but the results were worth it. It was unique, it was his; it was the purest form of the two halves of his heart.

He would not be the brute force of Bern, nor could he ever claim to be a full master like those of Sacae. But he would earn a title of his own, one that was synonymous with justice in his homeland and spoken of in hushed whispers by those that feared his blade.

White Wolf of the Black Fang.

#[ Mastery Drabble ]#[kinda wanna expand on this at a later date]#[but look at what studying the blade gets you]

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lotusthewriter · 2 years

Text

A spider web, and I’m caught in the middle

Fandom: The Owl House

Rating: T

Relationships: Hunter/Luz (though not the focus)

Characters: Hunter, Luz Noceda, Flapjack

Summary: “Mamá says I have to learn from my mistakes

So I know what I have to do now.”

Word count: 1.999

AO3 / Fanfiction

A/N: little vent fic I got out of my system.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - suicide note, suicidal thoughts, trauma and depression

SPOILERS FOR THANKS TO THEM.

Hunter and Luz are not siblings. Hate comments will be blocked.

Mamá says I have to learn from my mistakes,

So I know what I have to do now

Nights have been more than peaceful lately, so he’s definitely thrown off by the incessant beaking to his chest.

“Ack!” The Cosmic Frontier book that once covered his face falls off, exposing Flapjack. “Hey! What gives?” Hunter whispers angrily.

Only his annoyance fades as soon as the cardinal speaks with him.

“What? What do you mean she’s gone?” He questions.

Flapjack flies to get something from the floor, what appears to be a piece of paper. Hunter takes it, seeing it’s a rather small note, but the few words written on it already makes his stomach drop.

“No… no, no, no, no, no…” Hunter is on the verge of panic, but he knows that’s not going to help. “When did she leave exactly?”

His palisman replies, not too long ago .

Alright. Okay. She’s probably not far.

Hunter looks to the side, Gus fast asleep. He quietly tiptoes to the stairs, doing his best not to make much noise. It doesn’t seem like anyone else is awake right now. Maybe it’s for the best.

Of course, he knows it’ll be awful to leave everyone without a trace, especially in regards to someone’s safety… However, Hunter knows Luz – he knows she’ll feel horrible and guilty in case everyone goes to look for her. Besides, none of them know about Luz’s secrets. He’s the only one who can do this.

Hunter is still in his pajamas, with the exception of his sneakers. He closes the front door behind him with the most silence possible. After leaving the porch, he rushes to the once abandoned house they adopted as a hideout. It’s practically untouched, not a sign of Luz either inside or outside. Where else could she be?

“Do you think she has her phone with her?” He asks Flapjack, who nods. That’s a good sign.

So, the blond decides to call Luz, with the simple but efficient cell phone Camila gave him (and the rest). It rings, rings, rings, to no avail. It tells him to leave a voicemail, therefore he does.

“Luz, it’s Hunter. I- I read your note. I…” he sighs, “Please, tell me where you are.”

He tries again. Nothing.

“Luz, I’m serious, answer the phone. I’m alone, you don’t have to face anyone right now. Just talk to me. Please .”

Hunter doubts she’s even listening to these, but he insists. In the meantime, he thinks of every place they frequent – the statue of the Wittebane brothers, the museum, the school Luz attends…

Now that it’s the middle of the night, Flapjack gives him a lift, while of course, trying to be discreet. The boy has probably left ten voicemails, and hasn’t gotten a single reply, a sign of life. Hunter is beginning to expect the worst.

Should he call the others, after all? He doesn’t want to make things worse for Luz, yet he really doesn’t know where else to look, nor if she’s safe at all.

Hunter will make just one more call, then he’s asking for help.

He’s back on the ground, Flapjack relying on his shoulder as Hunter tries yet again.

It goes on and on and…

…

It finally reaches the other end.

“Luz! Where are you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Hunter soon feels guilty for sounding so desperate and for making so many questions all at once, but he can’t help it.

Despite that… Luz doesn’t say anything.

Nor does he hear a sound.

It’s like a ghost has picked up.

“Luz? Are you there?”

Nothing.

He doesn’t know if this is worse than losing the calls.

Either way, the older teen takes a deep breath.

“I promise, it’s just me, okay? I didn’t get the others. No one knows you’re gone.” Hunter clears his throat, “Well, except Flapjack. He’s worried about you. You know how much he loves you, don’t you?”

Usually Flapjack cheers Luz up. Besides Hunter, the little bird likes following her, her attention and affection. He’s definitely pampered, as Hunter remembers all the baby talk Luz uses with him.

The magenta-eyed boy smiles, until he doesn’t.

“... Luz. If you’re really there… Give me something. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. Just give me a sign, so I know you’re okay. And if you’re not okay, I want to help you, with anything at all.”

At the lack of response, he sighs.

“I promise, I won’t mess with you. I’ll do anything you need.” He can’t help the sniff. “Please.”

Hunter is trying really hard to keep it together, because the last thing Luz needs is to worry over his well-being. How long has she been doing this, for everyone’s sake? It’s not fair. It’s not fair for her to carry so much weight on her own. It’s not fair for her to suffer so much.

And it’s not fair for her to…

“... do you hate me?”

Hunter almost gasps at finally getting an answer, after such a dead silence. Thank the Titan, Luz doesn’t sound like she’s in danger. Though… her tone is certainly drained.

He then replies, without hesitation, “No, of course not.”

There’s another long pause.

“... Hunter?”

“Yeah?”

A sniff.

“I don’t want to exist anymore.”

Hunter swallows his tears for now.

“Each day that passes, it only gets worse. More and more pointless. My head is heavier, my chest hurts… Everyone is trying so hard to be hopeful, and I am too, but… I’m not. I can’t.”

He waits for her to say anything else, as much as she needs.

“I don’t see a future for me anymore,” Luz admits, her voice wet. “I’ll be trapped for the rest of my life. Consumed by my mistakes, haunted by my nightmares… all on my own.”

There are much more sniffs, as if Luz is trying hard to dry her tears.

Flapjack chirps in concern. Hunter hums.

“Do you want me to meet with you?” The latter suggests. “Or would you rather talk through the phone?”

Luz contemplates a little, before deciding, “I’m at the cliff by the graveyard.”

Hunter remembers only going there once, when they were all searching for any clues to get back to the Boiling Isles. Flapjack wastes no time to turn back into a staff for Hunter to pilot again.

“I’m on my way. Hang on, okay?” Hunter says softly.

“Okay.”

He turns off and makes his way to the creepy cemetery. It takes less than five minutes to get there, and from up there he already sees a lonely figure contemplating the dark pit. Hunter lands so as not to scare Luz. There aren’t many lights to guide them in this empty night, but he doesn’t need more than that.

Flapjack heads to Luz’s side, chirping in joy of seeing her again. Luz does pet him a little, but she’s not enthusiastic.

She hasn’t been in a while.

Hunter has known that more than anyone does.

He steps slowly to her side, facing the cliff she’s hanging over. Hunter isn’t scared by the dark. It’s all very… familiar to him. He knows how it is, to have darkness guide you. The truth is, there was light inside him all along. As for Luz, defined by her comforting light spells, she has always had darkness with her, even if secretly.

Now, it’s all that’s left of her.

Hunter sits next to her, not telling her to step away from the edge. Not yet.

Flapjack remains with her, now cuddling against her shoulder. Luz doesn’t push either of them away.

Hunter takes a look at her. Luz is also wearing pajamas, but surely keeping the Owl Lady’s jacket. The sleeves were sewed by yours truly, one of his first works to be proud of. He remembers her smile when he finished. One of the few times she showed happiness since getting to the Human Realm. Such a thankful, loving smile.

Luz’s face right now… it’s such a painful contrast.

Despite her crying earlier, her eyes are empty. Deep. Dark. It’s like the pit has consumed her.

Hunter scoots a little closer, but not to the point of forcing her into it.

He doesn’t say anything, knowing that nothing is going to heal Luz. The darkness can’t be sewed, it can’t be merely blinded by the sun, because the shadows will always be there.

There is one question that is lingering in his head, one he hopes is not invasive.

“How long have you been thinking about… this?” He breaks the silence.

Luz doesn’t react.

“... a few weeks.”

Hunter doesn’t get mad or sad, he simply understands.

She sighs.

“Whenever things got grim, I always had something to rely on. But now… I have nothing. Nothing makes me happy. Nothing is keeping me here. And I don’t know what to do anymore.” Luz rubs her eyes. “I’m only more and more convinced that it would be better if I were gone and none of you would have to put up with me ever again.”

Flapjack chirps sadly. Hunter remains stable.

“I’ve given up, but I keep having to mask myself, for everyone’s sake,” she vents. “I’m so tired of pretending. I’m tired of living. I’m tired .”

The girl hides her face in her arms. Hunter doesn’t hear her sobbing, at least not loudly.

He thinks of what he can do for her. Because again, he can’t magically solve these feelings she has. Hunter can only listen, and be present.

Flapjack looks at him with a saddened look, and Hunter nods.

“Luz,” he whispers, even though it’s only the two (or three) of them there, “do you want a hug?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever been affectionate towards Luz. He’s aware she loves physical touch, but she seems to respect Hunter’s space, even if he’s definitely become a hugger thanks to Gus and Willow. Hunter can’t help feeling a little guilty for never taking the initiative before.

Either way, Luz is lying against him, her face still hidden in her arms and knees. Hunter wraps an arm around her, pulling her close. Flapjack is then resting on his blond hair, to allow their contact.

His cheek is on Luz’s head, this time without a beanie. His gaze greets the pit in front of them.

“... Thank you,” Hunter says, “for telling me all of this. For letting me in.”

Suddenly, he feels her body trembling, and then she’s shoving her head against his chest. Luz doesn’t make a lot of noise, save for her quiet sobbing, and she holds dearly onto him. Hunter wraps both arms around her, nuzzling her brown curls.

“... I’m sorry,” Luz begs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

“Shhh…” Hunter squeezes her. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Flapjack agrees.

She seems to cry further with these words. Thankfully, Luz is allowing this. She’s letting herself be safe with him.

It doesn’t take too much time, but even if it did, Hunter wouldn’t mind. Regardless, Luz eventually calms down, taking deep breaths.

“Hunter?” She calls out.

“Hm?”

“... could we go to the old house? I don’t want to go back to my room.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Luz dries her face with her sewed sleeve. “Th-Thanks.”

He smiles fondly. “No problem.”

Finally, Flapjack takes them back, only they head to their little refuge near the woods. They share a bean bag, which is big enough for two. Luz seems to need it, since she falls asleep rather fast. Hunter, while sleeping better in the Human Realm, stays up to watch out for her.

Her note is still in his pocket, and it will likely remain there for the time being. Everything that happened in the graveyard shall stay there.

…

Luz is lying closer to him. Hunter can’t help the hot cheeks at the contact. Still, he smiles at her and sticks in. That’s what she needs the most.

#the owl house #toh spoilers #toh hunter #toh flapjack #luz noceda #lunter #fanfiction #suicide tw #suicide mention tw #suicidal thoughts tw

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