#one of these days ill just go around stalking all my villagers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

showrunnerihardlyknowher · 3 years

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Humans? Up MY Beanstalk? It's More Likely Than You Think!

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Danny's back on her bullshit and here to make everyone suffer with another WIP that's part of a fic trade with my beloved @hiddendreamer67 <3

Summary: I mean, Jack made it all sound so easy! Climb up the beanstalk a few times, steal enough riches to last himself ten life times, and live happily ever after as a heroic giant slayer with absolutely no repercussions.

Seriously, how hard can it be?

Aiden was no stranger to life events going from bad to worse at the drop of a hat, but more often than not he was able to go with the turbulent flow just enough to keep his head above water and out of any serious trouble. Such a feat was most evident in his adaptation to living within the labyrinth-like walls of the oversized castle he had foolishly sought refuge in weeks prior. Had it been weeks? Months, perhaps, or maybe only a handful of days. The passage of time was just as foreign to him as these massive surroundings, these massive people , and he didn’t have the gall to weasel his way towards an opening near the outside to gauge how high or low the sun was sitting in the strangely pink sky.

The irony was almost funny; where was that fool hearted bravery he had been swimming in when he first started his ascension up the winding stalk that sprouted who knows how many decades ago to reach its impressive height? He knew the stories of young boys trading cows for beans and getting far more than they bargained for. He knew it was down right suicidal to scale the plant in general given he hadn’t a lick of training when it came to climbing anything other than a ladder. The opportunity to live within a legend was too good to pass up, unfortunately. The flimsy promise of riches and adventure beyond his wildest dream outweighed the need to even consider how he was going to get back down from the towering growth when he was inevitably disappointed by the lack of golden eggs.

But he didn’t succumb to the thin air or fall to his death, and he wasn’t disappointed. If anything, he was given everything he envisioned. Almost everything. When he broke through the cloud line, he discovered the vine had tapered off in favor of clinging to a cliff side he was unaware even existed from below. Green tendrils served as almost a ladder to aid his climb up the mysterious rock formation until he was able to pull himself, huffing and panting and muscles tingling from overuse, over the edge to collapse on horizontal land. So the fabled kingdom of riches didn’t actually rest on the clouds, it seemed. A small let down, but hardly anything worth dampening the mood as Aiden took in his new world view.

He felt as if he had switched places with a weevil seeing how the small patch of grass he was in came up to his chest rather than swishing against his ankles. The euphoria of this great new discovery once again drowned out the more rational side of him, favoring exploration over potential survival. The logistics of returning home could be dealt with later, after he had slayed a giant and stolen only a penny of its wealth that would no doubt provide for him for the rest of his life. Naive. Gullible. Fool hearted.

Aiden had only trekked for a few hours before nearly getting swallowed up by a winged beast he likened to a bat, washing away over the edge of the cliff in a stream, and getting trampled by hulking soldiers doing their rounds. Each close call he survived by the skin of his teeth, luck and adrenaline driving him blindly to find a moment of safety. However, with each incident his bravery withered away into trepidation, especially the closer he came to the giants that roamed the lands. None of them had noticed him yet and part of him wondered if they would ever notice something as miniature as him scurrying around, but he wasn’t feeling bold enough to stay out in the open just for their reaction. No, once he had slipped into the fortress of metal and stone, out of sight from any predator's eyes, the will to venture back out had faded into near nothingness.

If he had it his way, he doubted he would ever again have the gung ho to leave the confines of his newfound sanctuary, not even for the bittersweet desire of returning home. He had made his bed in his haste to seek glory out of tall tales and now he must lie in it. Though his heart ached with anxiety and his hands ceased to tremble, his traitorous stomach refused to let him continue a life of solitude amongst the dusty beams. A weaker part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it would be worth it to live with the gnawing pain until it eventually overtook him. A fitting end, would it not, to starve to death like a rat in the walls? Alas, he was weak, but not weak enough to endure such aggressive cramping by the end of the second day, and so he mustered all the strength and courage he could just to snatch a few stale breadcrumbs long forgotten behind what he assumed was a cast iron stove.

Aiden truly was living up to his new rodent lifestyle, wasn’t he.

It was disgusting, but it was food, and though it made him ill the remainder of the night it had at least provided him with enough energy to go back out the next night in an effort to find something an inch more sustainable. By the end of the week, his newly discovered drive to live had him exploring every corner of the expansive kitchen during the wee hours of the night, when no giants hurried back and forth between the counters and the galley to serve platters of meals that could have fed his own village for months at a time. The rich smell of hot breads and meats made him dizzy, even more so now that he was getting accustomed to surviving off of dusty scraps he found on the floor. He needed to play it safe, he reminded himself as he watched one of the chef’s throw out an entire pan of fresh loaves because there’s too many chives in this! It’s too bitter for his tastes! , hardly resisting the urge to dive into the bins after the wasted food.

But...if they were so keen as to throw away an entire batch of fully prepared food over the fact that it was unsuitable for one person’s palette...surely there was no harm in taking what would be considered a nibble. Not when it was unwanted.

There it was again, that fool hearted bravery. If only Aiden had used it to find a way out of this unofficial prisoner rather than fuel his greed. He couldn’t be happy with the bare minimum he was given, could he? Always had to push the boundaries when he knew exactly where they lied, always run headfirst towards danger and then act surprised when it would bite him in the ass moments later. At least this time around he had the forethought to formulate some type of a plan, as flimsy as it was. Having become quite familiar with the inner structures of the fortress, he was able to determine the abode he was in was something along the lines of a castle. It was certainly sprawling enough, decorated with dark colors and glittering riches and constantly bustling with workers ranging from lowly servants to chittering socialites. Whether or not this was indeed a house for royalty he was unsure, having never been able to pinpoint which of the ambling lords or ladies might be the esteemed ruler of the lands. Assuming monarchies even existed this high, that is. Perhaps this was merely the norm of their society’s standards. It was unlikely, but it wasn’t as if he had many outside resources to compare this way of life to, not even in the way of his own village.

In theory, the heist should have been easy. In theory . All he had to do was wait until the dead of night for the bustling kitchen to fall silent as it normally did and he could slip out from the crevice closest to the scraps bin. Scaling in and out of the bin might prove trickier than he anticipated, but that remained a problem for future Aiden. The most important part of his newfound mission was being able to fill his stomach up with day-old bread and cold meats before they were discarded for good. If all went well, this could easily become a nightly routine of his, a way to feast like a king whilst living like a rat within the true royalty’s walls. He knew he was getting ahead of himself with that kind of fantasizing, perhaps that was even the beginning of his downfall, but he had so little to look forward to these days that he dared to get his hopes up for a semi-decent meal.

He hadn’t even made it halfway across the counter before he was spotted and subsequently captured.

But he had been so careful , he lamented to himself when the air was roughly knocked from his lungs after a massive hand slammed on top of him, pinning any squirms. True, he reflected as the stars cleared his vision, he never actually bothered to see if the kitchen remained vacant all night given that he was asleep...but he just assumed! Who in the world would be up during this hour!? Someone else sneaking a snack, maybe, just as he was. He could use that to his advantage, try and gain a few sympathy points by connecting with the giant on that level, convince them that all he needed was just a fraction of whatever they were probably getting for themselves and he would be on his way for good. A lie, of course, but the giant didn’t need to know that.

Once more, that short lived plan would never be put to use when Aiden felt himself being lifted in the air within a bone crushing grip, metal and leather digging into him in various places from the glove the giant wore. His eyes barely adjusted from the dizzying movements and dim kitchen before they were blown open at the sight, constricted breathing still entirely for a heartbeat. This was no ordinary giant, not like the ones he had grown accustomed to glancing at from the nooks and crannies. At first glance, however, it did fit the bill for the most part -- biped, guard’s armor, a human face -- but...did these giants typically have glowing purple eyes? He couldn’t recall for certain, yet the more he looked the more he found that appeared off. The outline of the guard’s figure seemed...fuzzy, like they were blurred rather than a solid defining line. His face, harsh and scrutinizing, was greyer than a corpse. He was otherworldly, and it was at that moment Aiden was painfully reminded he was in another world, one he didn’t belong in. One he knew he would be leaving quickly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the guard rumbled, his voice grating more like static than a growl.

“N-no…” Aiden agreed. Anything to get on his good side. “I’ll go, I’ll l-leave!”

Though he had found his voice, he had yet to find the strength to attempt any kind of struggle, not that he thought he’d be able to budge the massive fingers in the slightest. However, if he showed just how eager he was to depart from this situation, maybe the giant would believe him and grant him that small mercy. Instead, he was given another rough squeeze that made his spine pop, the fist clenching him raising higher so that he was more at eye level with his captor.

“How did you get in here, human? ” The guard spat. Good news was that humans were a known creature, at least. Bad news was that humans, apparently, were not known for any pleasant reason.

Aiden panted, trying to suck in a much needed breath after all of his were forced out. “I-I don’t know…” He squealed in discomfort when the fingers tightened again, refusing to let up until he gave a more satisfactory answer. “Th-the walls! I came through the walls! ”

The guard snorted and slackened his grip to allow an inch of breathing room, “Of course you did. Little pest that you and your kind are.”

“Wh...what are you…?” A bold question, but since he was sure it was to be one of his last, Aiden saw no reason not to ask.

He wasn’t given an answer, the giant instead lowering him slightly to exit the kitchen and pace down the halls. The scenery whizzed by so fast that it made his head spin, catching a few looks at other giants that were loitering about. Just like the guard, they were similar to the ones he would see in the daytime but...different. The two guards they passed looked to be of the same race of whatever the one holding him was, a noblewoman in a shimmering capelet eyed him suspiciously and he could have sworn her ‘capelet’ flittered before settling back down her shoulders. How had he never seen any of these attributes in the day? Then again, he often viewed the giants in the fortress at a distance and never for very long, they could have all been magically endowed for all he knew. Or, another theory, the ones he was coming across now were merely nocturnal and their more...normal housemates were sound asleep as he typically was while these creatures did their rounds and had their fun.

The wonderment was short lived when the giant shoved his way through a heavy wooden door at the very end of a lesser used corridor. With each step down the spiraling stone staircase, Aiden felt his heart sink just a little lower. The long shadows casting against the walls from the torches mounted to them gave the dank atmosphere an even more sinister vibe, leaving too many unknown things able to hide in the darkness. Even the guard, who did not appear to be an overly friendly fellow to begin with, looked twice as menacing with how the shadows concealed the few human features he did have. Aiden swallowed thickly, unsure of where they were heading but already knowing it wasn’t good.

His hunch was confirmed when the guard entered another hall, one lined with cramped cells that were partially occupied. He tried not to look at them and their fates, not wanting to see what might be awaiting him as well. Likely not, though. He was far too small to shackle and imprison. A different punishment would have to be in store for him. Further down the hall, the dungeon changed its holding cells from ones with iron bars to ones with solid steel doors instead, obscuring whatever poor bastard was locked within. Was that considered a crueler punishment? Perhaps that was where the torturing took place, if such types of creatures indulged in those acts. He saw no reason why they wouldn’t and as a result could very easily imagine himself being thrown in there next.

Fortunately, or not, the guard instead opened another wooden door that was adjacent to several of the isolated cells, coming to stand before another giant sitting at a table. Aiden couldn’t tell what was on the desk or what this new giant was using these unknown things for, but from the jist of it he must have been busy.

“Sir,” the guard holding him said while raising him higher for the presumably important one to see better. “A human has been found within the perimeter.”

The guard, a captain if Aiden were to guess, frowned. “Any others?”

“None that I could sense in the immediate area.”

He sighed and waved his hand. “We’ll do a sweep before daybreak. Who knows the amount of damage it’s done...what it’s taken, what it’s told.” He fixed Aiden with an icy glare that made the poor human try to shrink in on himself.

He wished he could have found a way to defend himself, plead his case, but his voice was nowhere to be found now. All cowardliness and no self preservation.

“And how shall I dispose of this one, sir?” The guard asked and Aiden paled. Dispose!?

The one in charge shrugged a shoulder and resumed what he was doing previously, fiddling with tools and books and papers for one reason or another. “Put it on lunch duty. Give the lizard another rat to keep him busy.”

Aiden didn’t quite follow the logic of the order. Lunch duty didn’t sound half as bad as being disposed of. The ‘lizard’ was news to him, but regardless the guard nodded at his order and left the office back down the corridor of steel doors. He wasn’t sure if he should speak up and ask for clarification while he mulled over his rather lenient sentencing, doubtful the giant would even regard him. From the looks of disgust and distrust he had been given numerous times in the short span of time he had been discovered, he could gather that his presence was an unwelcome one, though why he was still unsure. Evidently, he was going to be put to work and he could most certainly live with that. Earn his keep, he reasoned. Give rats to lizards or something. Would these rats and lizards be the same kind as the ones back on his homeworld down below or would they be to scale with the giants? Another question he should probably speak aloud before he got in over his head.

Or, at least, he would have asked, had a wad of cloth not been jammed into mouth hard enough to make his jaw click uncomfortably. He gagged, trying to shove the offending material out with his tongue, but it was packed into his cheeks too tightly to budge. A different material, a thin rope, was quickly wound around his chest to pin his arms to his sides before wrapping further down to bind his ankles. It had happened in the flash, the guard giving him no warning or reasoning for the sudden confinement, but it wasn’t as if Aiden could offer up much protest now that it was all said and done. He was completely immobile, spun up like a fly in a spider’s web. The guard had done it with such efficiency that it must be something similar to a routine for him by now which did not bode well. In a last ditch effort to save his hide from whatever...this was, he looked up at his captor with wide, pleading eyes, begging for just a shred of sympathy or at the very least an explanation of what was about to happen.

All he was met with was the same cold, violet eyes as all the other giants he had come to pass. Equally cruel and indifferent. And it was then he understood, as he was being roughly shoved through a hand slot at the base of one of the sturdy metal cell doors, that he was not the one who was meant to be delivering the meals during “lunch duty”. He was the meal. He was the rat, which meant the lizard was…

Aiden wriggled as best he could manage in his position until he was able to roll onto his back and get a good look around the cell. It was massive to him, but compared to the size of the giants he could tell it was rather cramped. Dark and depressing, much like one would expect a lonely prison cell to be, with the scattering of tiny bones and grime along the stone walls. His breathing quickened as he tried to tell just what type of origin the gnawed remains had been, however it was too difficult to tell at this distance in such gloom lighting. Perhaps that was for the best, giving his brain a little boost of reassurance that maybe they weren’t all human bones, that this wasn’t a common fate most of his kind befell when they made the same foolish mistake of invading where they clearly did not belong.

Trying to avoid the glare of bones only worsened his situation tenfold when he turned his head and was met with what was, obviously, the lizard as previously mentioned. Well, partially a lizard? More human-looking than lizard just going off a quick glance which led Aiden to believe the nickname was meant to be a derogatory term for whatever species it was. It...he? Yeah, he was kneeling on the floor, not by choice, but rather due to the shackles that bound him at the wrist and was tethered to the floor with a pitifully short chain. The clothes he wore reminded him of something he might have caught a few nobles wear given the level of craftsmanship and hand woven designs. It was a shame they were soiled now in what he could only assume was sweat and dirt, how he hoped that was dirt. The prisoner picked his head up when he heard the food slot screech open and shut, waiting for any other sound before sighing at the responding silence.

The chain jingled as he shifted to reposition himself into something a little more comfortable, Aiden now catching sight of the black nails that blended into scales littering the back of his hand when he flexed his fingers. A tail briefly flicked into view before concealing itself behind him once again. As the human let his gaze trail further up his face, fully prepared to see another hateful glare burning a hole through his weak soul, he couldn’t help but notice another spattering of black scales along his cheekbones and down his neck, presumably up to his eyes as well, but...well, he couldn’t tell. Not when there was a tattered, red cloth tied around his head, effectively blinding the sense. He wondered if this was an ailment the giant already had or if this was another part of his punishment, curious if he even had any eyes still in their sockets beneath the shoddy wrappings. Whatever the case was, the “lizard” obviously couldn’t see him and Aiden was unable to alert him to his presence with the gag shoved down his throat, leaving them at an awkward stalemate.

A stalemate that lasted all of two seconds before the giant wrinkled his nose and frowned. “The hell kind of rodent is this…? ” he muttered to himself.

So much for not knowing he was there. With great effort, Aiden twisted his body until he was able to turn on his side, trying to push himself up into a sitting position. He froze when the giant started to move as well, pointed ears twitching in response to the light scuffling he was making against the floor to pinpoint his location. Despite one of his senses being dulled, it was evident his remaining ones were still working in perfect order, maybe even heightened to compensate for the lack of vision.

“Another live one,” he sighed, fingers flexing again, “Sorry about this little buddy. I don’t like live prey any more than you like being it, I’m sure, but, well…”

That was the only warning Aiden had before the giant lunged, teeth snapping an inch in front of his frozen body. From this close, he could see the needle-thin fangs previously hidden behind a grimace and instantly wanted to be far, far away from them. His only saving grace was the short lead the other had on his cuffs, preventing him from pushing off any closer and cutting him off just shy of his prize for the time being. He growled in annoyance at having missed the offered prey, pulling back to realign himself for a better pounce.

“Come on, just make this easy for the both of us,” the giant huffed.

Oh, absolutely not. No, no, no. No, this was not how Aiden wanted his adventure in the skies to end. Fuck the adventure, he wanted to go home and he wanted to do so alive and in one piece. Being ripped to shreds was not a fate he ever envisioned for himself. He wasn’t going to die like some...some rat!

The giant was inching closer, moving along the side as much as the chain would allow to get a better angle. It didn’t matter whether he ensnared the tiny between his claws or teeth or even batted its little corpse within reaching distance with his tail, so long as he was able to get a hold on its fresh flesh one way or another. Desperately, Aiden began to rock back and forth to shimmy his body across the floor, painstakingly putting centimeters of distance between them that the giant was able to make up in a single shuffle. When the chain pulled taunt again, the human rolled to the side and narrowly missed the clamp of teeth once more, hot breath blowing against his back and covering his body in goosebumps. Undeterred, however, the giant followed his scent that was so tantalizingly close and moved his body in unison with Aiden’s. With another bite, he was able to find purchase on the ropes that burned against his arms and sunk his fangs in what he supposed was meant to be an animal's tender flesh.

Aiden had tried to avoid the attack but simply could not scramble away quick enough, his only luck being that he was just far enough that the gnashing teeth only managed to puncture through the fibers of rope rather than his actual skin. He was lifted into the air when the giant pulled back, kicking and thrashing to the best of his ability against the hold. The humid air blowing on the back of his head made him nauseous now, only able to envision how the feeling would quickly be enveloping him entirely when he was thrown back and swallowed down the creature’s gullet. With one, final twist, Aiden prayed his limited strength would be enough to somehow dislodge himself from the giant’s maw and give him another chance at playing this unbalanced game of chase.

And then the rope snapped.

Having already been sawed and frayed in several places from the giant’s fangs, Aiden’s pull was all it needed to rip apart entirely, sending the human sprawling onto the cold ground. His vision clouded when his head smacked against the stone, ironically thankful for the wad of cloth in his mouth or he most certainly would have lost a few teeth. Without a doubt, he was going to have a nasty bruise coloring the majority of his right side in the near future, the ache still pulsing with every wheezing breath he tried to gain back. While the stars faded from his eyes, he watched distantly as the giant curiously grinded the material in his mouth before dropping it. He pursed his lips in confusion, expecting raw meat and the rush of blood rather than some scratchy coils of what almost tasted like hide.

“Gods, what even is this,” he cringed.

Me , Aiden wanted to cry out, it’s me, it’s a human!

The giant’s hang up with his unusual meal faded into resignation much sooner than Aiden would have liked. He was hardly to blame, though, if he had been given nothing but live pests to blindly hunt down without the use of his full mobility for an undetermined amount of time. They were in a similar boat, really. Creatures trapped in a home they had no business being in, trying to survive on what little scraps were thrown their way. The human sorely wished he hadn’t been relegated into the scraps category, but there was little he could do about that now. Knowing his prey had a pretty straight forward drop, he moved again with an open mouth to seal the foreign creature’s fate.

The sight of teeth rushing to greet him was exactly the adrenaline rush Aiden’s body needed to get moving again, much more successfully this time now that he had arms to push up with and legs to carry him a greater distance. As much as he would have loved to have sprinted to the other side of the cell, even find another crack to slip through if fate would feel the desire to be so kind to him today, he only managed to stumble a few feet out of the immediate danger zone before tripping over himself. His right leg screamed in agony from the second fall, a sign of something being sprained somewhere he was sure. He wanted to scream out loud as well had it not been for the gag. The gag he realized he could take out now. Unsure of how useful his last words would even be, the human ripped the wad of cloth out of his mouth in a frenzy while the giant prepped himself for another attack. If anything, at least Aiden could find catharsis in leaving some sort of statement about himself behind for someone to hear, even if it was just confirmation of his fool heartedness.

“Stop!” Aiden yelled, voice raw and itching his throat like it hadn’t been used in ages rather than half an hour. “Please, stop! G-get away! ”

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting the giant to do as a result, but one thing was clear and it was that he most certainly wasn’t expecting his meal to say anything. He reeled back like he had been physically struck by those words, if his eyes were visible he was sure they would be as wide as serving platters. It was almost comical how he stumbled back, the menacing creature suddenly so fearful of a tiny vermin it was trying to consume moments prior, mouth agape as he tried to process what was going on without being able to actually see it.

“You...did you just, oh my gods,” he gasped. While he was glad he was being spared for the time being, the giant’s nervousness did little to quell the anxiety that had been brewing in Aiden’s heart since the moment he came upon this accursed land.

“Ple-please…” Aiden whimpered, suddenly drained physically and emotionally from the whole ordeal and settling to just drag himself any extra distance he could away from his unofficial death penalty. It was a pathetic display, but on the bright side, one he wouldn’t be mocked for. “Don’t h-hurt me…”

The giant shifted again, hesitant, closer , and Aiden braced himself for the final bite to end it all.

“You can talk!? ”

#g/t #fearplay #g/t writing #giant/tiny #macro/micro #gianttiny #my writing #hiddendreamer67 #MANDY MY BELOVED #also these are officially her OCs so don't ask me for ANYTHING about them #these are HER KIDS NOW i sign over my parental rights #well #i guess they're mine until I get chapter two out

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hongism · 3 years

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the little things - c.san

↣ pairing: san x reader; poly ot8 x reader ↣ genre: sfw, fluff, slight angst, fantasy au, witch ateez au ↣ wc: 3.3k ↣ summary: one of your favorite things to do is look at the stars with san ↣ warnings: none !

“You’re out rather early.”

You don’t turn towards the source of the voice; just hearing him speak is enough of a clue for you to know exactly who it is. Although, even if he hadn’t spoken, you’re sure you would have known from the flutter of wings that resounded before his arrival.

“The stars are prettiest right before dawn breaks,” you sigh, hugging your arms a bit tighter around your knees. Your new companion moves forward and comes to a stop beside you. He doesn’t sit down quite yet; for a while, he merely stands at your side and stares up at the same sky hanging above your heads. The time is roughly four o’clock in the morning — a late night for you and an early morning for San — but your words hold true. The glimmering stars are tucked behind fluffy and luscious clouds that seem to herald coming rain, and they shine against a midnight blue background that seems infinitely deep.

San sinks down to sit beside you at last, tossing his legs over the lip of the stone wall you’re perched on, and he sways his legs in rhythm with an unknown melody. You squeeze your knees as you press your cheek to one of them, enough to have a clear view of San’s pretty side profile against a landscape of green pine trees and shining stars.

“I thought you were out here to look at the stars,” San whispers. He glances at you out the corner of his eye. There’s no malice in his speech, just a hint of teasing, and you can’t keep your lips from quirking into a smile.

“I’m looking at you instead.”

“I should be the one looking at you, little star.” San turns his chin to face you, and his dimples flash as he grins back through the hazy moonlit night. “Our precious star,” he murmurs before reaching a hand out to trace over your forehead, slipping down to your temple then to your cheek and dragging the pads of his fingers over your skin in an unknown pattern.

“Why are you up so early?”

“Waiting for Hongjoong,” San says through a sigh. His hand retracts as quickly as it made contact, and you can’t pretend to be oblivious as to why. Things are always… harsh for San when Hongjoong is gone. It’s much worse when it’s a job like Hongjoong’s current one where the witch has to be gone for weeks at a time. Then San becomes quite volatile and hard to deal with — it only makes sense when a familiar is separate from his master for so long. Seonghwa tries to do damage control every time, tries to use techniques that normally help his own familiar Yeosang calm down, but they never work for San. Hongjoong is the only person and thing that can quell the anxieties and worries and stress that flow through San’s veins in times like these. And seeing as they are a bonded pair, it makes the connection of sharing emotional states weaker. They can’t share emotions this far apart, and that weighs heavily on San’s shoulders after being so used to sharing his heart in such a way for so long. Even if Hongjoong has a tendency to cut San off from feeling the brunt of his negative emotions, there’s still a lingering knowledge that the other is right there, just within grasp.

Not now, however.

San has gone three long weeks without even a breath of a whisper from Hongjoong.

And tonight (this morning? Today? Whatever time it may be) the witch is supposed to return. San’s nerves must be getting to him if he’s out this early because usually he would curl up in Hongjoong’s bed and await the witch there, presenting himself like a neatly wrapped present for the other to unravel with warm kisses and soft touches.

San clenches his fingers blindly around the lip of the wall.

“Tell me a story?” You inquire out of the blue. Your eyes shift to look up at the sky again. San huffs out a weak laugh.

“What kind?”

“Hm, how you and Hongjoong met?”

A risky choice, maybe, but you know how near and dear that tale is to San’s heart, and how much comfort it brings him in simply thinking of it. So it is also a very wise choice on your behalf. San’s lips twitch into the shadow of a smile.

“You’ve heard it so many times already…”

“I’ll give you something in return,” you coo, reaching out to pinch the skin around San’s elbow. He yelps like a kicked dog and offers up a deep pout that has you ready to tease him further.

“Seven kisses.”

“Seven?” You echo. Confusion slips into your tone. You can’t recall any significance to the number seven, nor can you remember whether it’s supposed to have special meaning.

“One for each time I’ve told you this story,” San murmurs, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. You scowl at the faint sensation as a laugh nearly escapes you, but you manage to bite it back enough to smile again.

“I always forgot how good a crow’s memory is.”

“Ravens remember well too, little star.”

You poke your tongue out between your lips in his direction, and San merely laughs at your expression before shifting closer to you. He loops a hand around one of yours, pulling it away from the leg you have propped up on the rock wall, then he loops his fingers through yours.

“Several hundred winters ago, this land we live in now held very different values and laws. The people were cruel and brash, only using their fists and crude weapons to handle gathering food and protecting their women and children. No one imagined there was any other way of doing things — the people knew nothing of what gentle prowess magic could offer.” San glances over at you, drawing a laugh from your lips when he makes eye contact with you. You shake your head ever so slightly.

“I didn’t mean for you to give me the version that’s in books and legends…”

San dares to giggle at that, and a moment later, he’s shifting his position so that he can rest his head against your thigh and look up at the stars like that. You have to push your other leg down to accommodate the shift, and once San is comfortably staring up at the sky with you, he begins speaking again.

“I was alone. It wasn’t something new; I was used to it at that point. Ravens don’t have the longest lifespan, and I was still a young familiar at the time. I had no owner or master. My mother’s master left our nest after she passed, leaving me with two sisters who were sick and close to death. They were too ill to shift to their human forms, so I couldn’t bring them to an apothecary or village. Ravens are seen as bad omens after all; had I brought them to a town, they would have been killed on the spot. I spent some time going between our nest and the nearest village, stealing food and medicine where I could because I couldn’t afford it. I worked some too, little odd jobs here and there, but it was a lot of delivery work. Made it easy to steal thankfully. Then… well, one day, I got too bold and tried pickpocketing a high-ranking guardsman. He was some lieutenant or something like that, I don’t remember. Too many years have passed since then. But I got caught trying to lift some coin off him in a bar, and he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out to the streets. He was planning on killing me right then and there with no trial, but some short little witch came stalking up without a care in the world and knocked the guard on his ass. He was going on and on about how rude it is to grab random people off the street like that.”

“Of course he would,” you murmur, a bit of fondness slipping into your tone. “Don’t let him catch you calling him short though.”

“Eh, he’ll survive. In any case, when the guard tried explaining that I was trying to pickpocket him, this witch extended a hand to me and asked if I needed help. I naturally said no because I didn’t think I could trust him, then took off running. I went back to my nest in the hopes of finding my sisters and telling them to get out of the area, yet when I got there, they were already gone. It had been nearly two years since my mother passed, so they were well enough to do things on their own at that point, but they’d never up and left like that without warning. I couldn’t do anything but stay and wait for their return. We’d gathered some food and supplies, so I was able to live off of it for several months before needing to depart for more again. The entire time, not once did my sisters return. They just… disappeared into thin air. I waited every day, wondered when they would come back, and some nights I would stay awake all night flying around the area in search of them.”

“That part always breaks my heart,” you whisper. Stretching a hand down, you drag your fingers along the curve of San’s cheekbones then his jaws, torn away from the stars as you look at the familiar.

“Why? Had it not happened, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I know but…”

“But Hongjoong found me,” San continues through a smile. You huff but let him finish the story, pointedly ignoring the curling grin he sends your way. “After a few months, I started noticing magical residue near my nest. And sure enough, that little witch from before was setting up camp nearby. I did nothing at first, watched him from afar for a while, then I got brave enough to try to lift a few things from his camp. That turned out to be quite the mistake because he caught me within three seconds of setting foot into that camp. And yet… instead of threatening to kill me or harming me, the little witch simply asked if I was alone. ”Are you alone? Do you have anyone with you? A master? I feel your magical energy yet it doesn’t seem normal. You must be a familiar. Where is your master?“ When I said I had no master and was on my own, the little witch was… hm, I would say he was both confused and concerned. Said it was no good for a familiar to go without a master. Without one, I would die within a few years. He suggested that I hurry along with finding one, and I explained I had absolutely no one else in my life.”

“And after that?”

San hums to himself a bit, bringing his hands up above his head as he stares at the night sky. A delicate little smile graces his pretty lips and squeezes his dimples out, but he doesn’t speak any other words for quite some time. The next voice you hear doesn’t even belong to him.

“After that, I invited San to spend some time in my care and work an honest job for me before going on his way to finding a master.”

Hongjoong.

You twist your neck towards the source of the voice, finding the witch standing a little ways away from the wall you and San are currently seated on, and he grins through the moonlit night at you. San jolts upwards at the sound of his master. The smile that splits his lips is so broad and heartwarming that it feels too intimate to look at, even for you who shares in their love for one another. It’s different for them, and you know that, even if it’s just a different strain of the same love, it’s different nonetheless. San hops off the wall in one swift move, closing the distance between his and Hongjoong’s bodies within seconds.

“As it turns out, we were…we did quite well together. And thus, here we are,” Hongjoong says as he lets San press his nose into the curve of his neck. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. Had to make a few extra stops along the way to gather some supplies. How was he?” Hongjoong directs the words to you, watching with careful yet loving eyes as you pull yourself down from the wall as well and step closer to him and San. The familiar will be like this for a while; unmoving and unresponsive as he soaks in Hongjoong’s presence again and drowns himself in the sensation of having all those feelings doubled once more. Hongjoong will try to ease the burden as much as he can for both their sake, and you’ll do what you do best: taking care of both of them when it gets to be too overwhelming. While Seonghwa and Yeosang (who don’t go a long time without each other anyway) don’t have to deal with this type of ordeal, Hongjoong and San always do. Hongjoong thinks it has something to do with how frequent his trips are, or perhaps the lingering sensation of separation anxiety that San suffers from given his past. Either way, it makes their reunions that much more emotionally taxing and intense. Even you, who has not a drop of magical ability in your body, can feel the sheer power radiating off them both right in this moment.

“You came home at the right time. He was getting antsy,” you murmur back, reaching up to comb your fingers through the long hair at the base of San’s scalp.

“Next time I’ll leave you all with a bit more of a safety net.”

“Or you could come back sooner.”

Hongjoong nearly rolls his eyes, and you catch the way he stops himself just beforehand. The annoyance in his features is nothing serious, only something because he’s heard such words a hundred times over.

“No doubt you haven’t slept yet?” He inquires, trying his best to make his way to the door of the coven’s home. San proves to be quite the obstruction, as it seems, and Hongjoong has to hoist the slightly larger man up enough to loop his legs around the smaller’s waist. Hongjoong grunts from the added weight but manages to carry San the rest of the way with no other complaints. You trail along beside them, taking care of opening the door and grabbing Hongjoong’s satchel once inside.

“Welcome home, my sweet starlight. I see our star and bird found you before I could.” Seonghwa is the first to greet the three of you upon stepping inside. You only notice Yeosang’s sleek black cat form slinking around the hearth witch’s ankles when you’re helping Hongjoong out of his shoes.

“Mm, they were waiting outside,” Hongjoong mumbles into the chaste kiss Seonghwa delivers to his lips. Seonghwa also places a sweet kiss on the back of San’s head before Hongjoong steps around the taller man, continuing to carry San as he goes.

“Mingi fell asleep in your bed last night, so don’t be surprised if you find him there,” Seonghwa calls out over his shoulder. You stretch up to your tiptoes in front of him, half-expecting the kiss that he presses to your lips a few seconds later, but the sudden appearance of Yeosang’s human form popping up on your left is much less expected. You nearly jump out of your skin, and probably would have if not for Seonghwa placing a steadying hand on your hip.

“You haven’t slept either,” Yeosang comments, nose pushing hard against your cheek. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“No need to lecture. I’m going up with them, don’t worry.”

“I’ll come by after Jongho heads out for morning work.” Yeosang smiles a little before turning on his heel and heading back into the kitchen, no doubt where Jongho waits. Seonghwa huffs out a laugh but sends you on your way without any more conversation. You catch him slipping back into the kitchen as well just as you start climbing the stairs behind Hongjoong.

“Did San fall asleep already?” You ask after the man. You can barely see the familiar’s face from how hard he has it pressed into Hongjoong’s neck, but his eyes seem to have fallen shut at some point. He’s either basking in Hongjoong’s presence as much as he can or he’s entered a pleasant state of unconsciousness with Hongjoong’s warmth around him.

“Almost. He’s calming down some though. I’ll put him in bed with Mingi then take a bath. Care to join?”

“Such a temptress,” you snort to his back.

“I’m only joking, my dear. Keep San and Mingi company while I’m washing up for me instead? We can bathe together another day.”

“Of course darling,” you murmur, drawing a hand across his shoulders once the two of you reach his door. “Be quick though. Mingi will want some time to cuddle before he joins Jongho for yard work.”

As Seonghwa warned, Mingi is already curled up into a tight ball in the center of Hongjoong’s bed when you enter the room. It’s not hard to move his lanky limbs to the side to make room for San, and when Hongjoong eases the familiar down to the mattress, Mingi immediately takes to curling his body around the smaller man like it’s an act of pure instinct. San nuzzles into the touch, releasing a content little hum. You feel a hand brush the small of your back and jerk to look Hongjoong in the eye. Turns out, it was only a way to distract you because he captures your lips in a quick kiss that tastes a bit of honey and cinnamon. You have no time to savor the taste, however; Hongjoong pulls away just as quick and mumbles something about being quick to clean up. You bring a hand up to touch the spot where his lips just were. The smile that overtakes your face is one you can’t hold back, and now it’s your turn to be content and happy as you pull the sheets back to join Mingi and San under the covers. A large hand clamps down hard on your waist, tugging you flush against San’s chest.

“Where’s my kiss?” Mingi’s voice rises through the silence, thick and groggy from sleep. You reach around San to smack him as gently as possible on the arm.

“Go back to bed.”

“Joong home yet?”

“Mhm, he’ll be in bed in just a bit.”

“Good,” Mingi sighs. He settles back into the mattress, maintaining his hold on you around San’s body, and you twist just enough to lean over the sleeping familiar.

“Kiss,” you murmur, and Mingi rushes to meet you halfway with a cheeky grin. “Okay, now sleep. You don’t have long before you have to be up.”

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep wrapped up in that embrace, and even when Hongjoong does finally come to bed, he doesn’t stir you from sleep except for the barest sensation of lips against your forehead. You might hear him mutter some loving words to all three of you, perhaps lingering a little while longer on San because he knows the familiar needs that reassurance and comfort right now more than ever, but once he settles down and tucks your head against his chest, a wildly comfortable and deep sleep overcomes you.

#atzinc #kwritersworldnet #kdiarynet #ateez x reader #san x reader #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez fic #ateez imagine #ateez imagines #choi san x reader #san fluff #san angst #san imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez drabbles #ateez drabble #ateez scenario

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godmother-encanto-au · 2 years

Text

Godmother Chapter Thirteen-Confined

In which the Madrigals try to keep an ailing Mirabel under wraps, the Encanto is terrorized by a mysterious force and a familiar face emerges at the worst possible time.

Apologies for the late arrival of this chapter, recent world events have had me too stressed out for personal reasons to write, thankfully I had good news I was waiting on so my motivation is temporarily back. Hopefully it will stick around for a while.

…..

The kitchen was cold when Isabela shuffled in, the sink piled with dishes, the storage baskets empty. Shivering in the morning chill, she lit the stove and put a fresh pot of water on the boil. The canister of coffee was down to a quarter of its usual stock, even though they were carefully rationing it now. She checked the cornmeal jar too; almost completely gone.

We have some eggs still, don't we? In the tróje...

Luisa walked in as she was thinking, slumped over with exhaustion, carrying a basket of ripped up sheets, dark and sodden with blood.

“Is there still coffee? I need coffee,” she groaned.

“There's enough for a small cup,” Isabela told her. “I think you need sleep more than coffee though.”

“Don't we all,” Luisa grumbled quietly.

“How was she last night?”

“Bad. I thought she was going to bleed out. And when she could talk, she kept saying Mama was trying to poison her.”

Isabela made two small cups of coffee and passed one to Luisa. She hadn't heard Mirabel speak at all since the fits began, but whenever she was on duty in the nursery she did see Mirabel shrink away from Julieta as though she thought she was trying to hurt her.

“She's sick,” Isabela said. “It's not her fault...I mean, it's hard when the treatment hurts the person you're trying to help...”

“What treatment? Has Mama ever told you what exactly she's trying to do?” Luisa fired back, gripping her hair in frustration. “She needs a hospital, what are we even doing keeping her locked up here like some crazed animal?”

“She's not locked up,” Isabela argued. “She's tied down for her own safety. She'll hurt herself if she isn't. They'd do exactly the same thing in a hospital.”

They sat together for a while in grim, contemplative silence. Dolores had fled the house after just one day, unable to take the constant screaming, rattling and the strange noises coming from the nursery. Pepa joined her the next day with Antonio; although she wanted to stay and help her sister with her terribly ill niece, her fear and panic was making the whole Casita unsafe with constant flooding and high winds.

The men had fled too, in their own way. Alma had taken a significant chunk of the Madrigal family wealth and was using it to supply the village with imported crops, sending Agustin, Felix and even Camilo off to collect what they needed. Although they all said they wished to stay behind and help, their haste in leaving to the other towns said differently.

Alma was also distributing the Madrigal's food stores to the village. Their own few crops had been untouched by whatever had stripped the Encanto of its food, but it was really only supposed to be enough for their household. Isabela did what she could with growing edible plants to fill things out, but edible plants were much more complicated than flowers. Her entire room had been taken over by fruit trees, but she couldn't produce a single stalk of corn.

That left Luisa, Julieta and Bruno managing Mirabel's condition, all day and night. Julieta almost never left her side, trying over and over to get her to eat something and wrapping her in makeshift bandages near every hour. Luisa held her down during her fits when the restraints snapped. Bruno tried to do both while they stole an hour of sleep here and there, but he wasn't strong enough to hold her, and didn't have the heart to try and force her to eat. At his most useful, he washed the bandages over and over so they always had a fresh supply.

Desperately needed, because Mirabel was bleeding through her skin now. It was like she was covered in tiny cuts that wouldn't close, even though Julieta couldn't find an actual wound. How the blood loss hadn't killed her already was a mystery, the small amount of food Julieta had managed to get into her couldn't account for it. She seemed to bleed even more when she swallowed something.

And the fits...

They were so violent she had broken through two beds before they gave up and put the mattress on the floor directly. She screamed herself hoarse when she was awake, or made bizarre animalistic noises that shook the walls. Her limbs cracked under the restraints until she tore through them. If she got loose for a single moment she threw herself at the door or the window, trying desperately to get out, until she was dragged back to the bed and restrained again, over and over and over.

The house was quiet for now, which meant she had slipped into unconsciousness. So it was just about safe for Luisa to come downstairs, drop off some bandages to be washed and drink some coffee, maybe even lie down for an hour. If it wasn't for the regenerative properties of Julieta's food, they could never have kept this up.

“I need to tell Mama we're out of cornmeal,” Isabela said, breaking the silence.

“You haven't had any luck growing some, then?”

“No. I got the seed but I can't get it to grow. All I have right now is bananas.”

“I'm so sick of bananas,” Luisa sighed.

“I'll try some figs, then.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.”

Finishing her coffee, Luisa trudged back upstairs to the nursery. Julieta was slumped over on a pile of clean bandages, gently snoring. Luisa checked the restraints, thick rope leashed to wooden posts that had been hastily nailed into the floor, and when she looked up she was surprised to see her sister was awake.

Eyes fever-bright, Mirabel stared at Luisa. Luisa wanted to say something nice, something comforting, but she couldn't think of anything.

“Luisa...”

Mirabel's voice was raspy, too quiet.

“You need to untie me.”

Luisa shook her head, looking away.

“You know I can't do that,” she whispered. “You're sick, we're trying to help you...we just don't want you to hurt yourself...”

“She's hurting me,” Mirabel told her. “She's going to kill me if she keeps going. She's trying to help but she doesn't know what she's doing.”

Mirabel sometimes had these little moments of lucidity, but they were fleeting. Always, she asked to be let go. Always, they refused.

But today, something was different.

“At least get rid of the doll,” Mirabel asked, cocking her head in the direction of the corn husk doll on the windowsill. It was still there, even when all the other furniture had been broken or removed.

“The doll? Why?” Luisa asked.

“Because it's ugly and I don't want to look at it.”

Luisa burst into laughter, tinged with a touch of anguish. That was such a Mirabel answer it was almost enough to give her hope of getting back to normal. Mirabel giggled hoarsely, though it seemed to cause her pain.

“Who puts a face on a corn husk doll?” she asked.

“I know!” Luisa agreed.

As she picked up the doll and slipped it into her pocket, the heavy atmosphere in the nursery seemed to clear, just a little. Julieta stirred uneasily in her sleep. At Mirabel's hairline, a few little beads of blood started forming again, but nowhere near as fast as they had been before.

…..

In the village, the people were doing the unthinkable. They were doubting the Madrigal family.

The loss of their crops had scared them, but these things happened. The good book was full of stories of sudden famine. The Madrigals didn't have an obligation to share their unravaged food stores, not really, but they did anyway. Proof that they were the blessed chosen people.

And then the rumours started flitting around. Mirabel Madrigal had gone mad, they said, and her family had locked her away for it. After what the poor girl had been through a little madness was to be expected, why would her family lock her up? Other rumours said that the girl had been possessed by some sort of demon, and the Madrigals were trying to drive it out. The noise and the shaking that came from the Casíta seemed in keeping with this rumour.

And then, there was a creeping unease that told another story, that the Madrigals, so blessed, were meddling in matters they didn't understand and the village was being punished for their arrogance. First the crops were ravaged, and then the chicken's eggs were broken or taken away. The goats only gave a few drops of blood-tainted milk. Even the wild fruit trees and bushes were yielding up fruit that was rotten beyond saving. There were no fish to be found in the river, and any traps laid in the forest turned up empty and broken.

Just when they thought it couldn't get worse, a new madness descended on them. The donkeys and horses were whipped into a frenzy and broke through their fences, two of them were lost to the forest. One of the billy goats attacked his owner, nearly killing him by goring him with his horns. The village dogs couldn't rest, they were constantly barking at thin air, all day and night.

There were whispers from the forest, unintelligible, chanting in some ancient runic language that chilled to the bone anyone who heard it. It terrified the children in particular, it seemed almost aimed at them. They could not sleep, and for the first time in the Encanto's history families sent their children away to other villages for safety. A number of families considered moving away for good.

Alma Madrigal assured them all that they would be taken care of while these strange occurrences were investigated. As much as they wanted to believe her, they had to wonder if the Madrigal gifts were finally failing them.

…..

Once the corn husk doll was gone, Mirabel felt the magic that had been squirming under her skin settle down, slow to a trickle. It wouldn't last, she knew, the next onslaught was just around the corner if her mother managed to force her to eat. For now, she could regroup, consider what she knew.

The other poison artefact was still in the room, somewhere. Under her mattress, most likely, there was nowhere else for it to be. Mirabel could almost taste it, sour and cold and heavy on her tongue. As long as it wasn't touching her directly, it wasn't enough to make the magic react. She would have to convince someone else to get rid of it, Luisa wasn't likely to fall for the same ploy twice, and Julieta would notice the doll's absence.

Julieta most likely thought she was just trying to break the bond between Mirabel and the butterfly queen...

(how did she find out?)

...and indeed Mirabel felt the bond stretched thin by mortal food and the poison artefacts, but what she was really doing was trying to push the magic out of Mirabel entirely. The magic reacted by trying to break out of Mirabel's body however it could. It was bonded through her blood, and through the blood it pushed outwards.

She was exhausted with pain. Every muscle ached, strained past capacity when the magic thrashed and rolled to find a way out. Just a minute soaking in the water of the butterfly queen's realm would clear up this pain, strengthen the bond, settle the magic. If she could convince someone to untie her, just long enough to make it to the edge of the Encanto, the butterfly court would do the rest. She knew that. It was spoken in the words of the chanting she heard from the forest.

She could feel the butterfly queen's anger from where she was. The queen was powerful enough to go toe to toe with the Casíta's magic, but doing so would risk blowing a village-sized crater where the Encanto used to be, killing every creature nearby. Terrorizing the village with famine and mischief was a gentle approach, by immortal standards. Still, her patience was wearing thin. If she felt moved enough to step into the mortal realm to get her child back, it would be disastrous.

Mirabel had tried to tell her mother, through agonizing fits where the magic nearly broke her back and spit blood onto the sheets of the bed she was tethered to. Julieta just set her jaw and refused to listen.

“I'm doing what needs to be done,” was all she would say. “You will thank me when it's over.”

With the removal of the corn husk doll, two little white butterflies had dared to flit close to the window, to check in on her. If they could get close enough to drop a pata de vaca on the windowsill, it would reverse some of the damage done. But Casíta angrily flapped its shutters, threatening to crush them if they got too close.

Powerful as they were, contamination was an immortal's weakness. If the magic was driven out and she survived the process, she would still be too poisoned by mortal food and mortal air to go back to her immortal mother. She understood that now, if she didn't before. The magic in her blood had kept her tied to the butterfly queen, without it their bond would be broken forever.

She was so deep in thought she didn't hear Bruno come in until he was sitting right beside her, gently shaking her.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Wasn't sure if you were awake...did I wake you? I shouldn't have woken you, I'm sorry...”

“I wasn't asleep,” she mumbled.

“Oh, good...I mean, not good, you should probably try and get some sleep when you can, right?”

“I can't sleep while I'm tied up like this.”

“Yeah, good point...anyway, I'm supposed to feed you this...”

It was a bowl of plain rice and some lightly fried vegetables, a slight change from the soups and pureés Julieta had been forcing down her throat since the fits started. Still, Mirabel's stomach churned just looking at it.

“I can't,” Mirabel told him.

Bruno sighed, put the bowl down and scratched his head nervously.

“My sister's not going to be happy with me if I don't get you to eat...”

“Tío Bruno, you know what she's trying to do isn't going to work. What does it matter?”

“What? I...I don't know that...”

“Yes, you do. You saw a prophecy where I walked away from the Encanto. She's doing this to keep me here. It's not going to work.”

“Prophecies aren't exactly stable,” Bruno said with a nervous shrug. “They can change based on how someone reacts to them, you know.”

“So what are you seeing now?”

He didn't want to answer the question, she could see that. He fidgeted, his eyes darted around the room, flickering over her restraints and the untouched food.

“I can't see anything in your future,” he admitted at last. “It's clouded over. There's something interfering with it.”

“That something is either going to get what it wants, or I'm going to die while you fail to keep it away. You need to let me go.”

For a moment, it looked like Bruno was really, truly considering it. He was used to nobody listening to him, surely he of all people knew how she felt? His hands clenched and unclenched, he worried his lower lip with his teeth.

“I can't,” he sighed. “I just...it would break Julieta's heart, I can't do that to her. I'm sorry.”

It was too much to ask for him to free her, but maybe...

“Could you at least take this thing out from under the bed? It's digging into me, I can't sleep,” she asked innocently.

Relieved to have something he could do for her, Bruno didn't even question it. He reached around under the mattress until he found it...

(cold iron, an old mortal trick)

“How did a horseshoe get under there?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

“Old art project,” she lied with a shrug. “I thought I could make it into a loom or something...”

…..

Slowly, the fits slowed and Mirabel began to recover. Julieta, exhausted by the extremity of the first few days, didn't seem to notice that the doll and the horseshoe were gone. She kept up the force-feeding, however, resorting to a funnel and a pipe when she had to and feeling terrible about it for hours after. Mirabel always had fits after being force-fed.

The magic was settling around her bones for safety, waiting for the opportunity to break out. All she needed was for one family member to take pity on her and loosen the straps, and then she could slip out. The butterfly court was growing impatient, day by day.

Camilo was the most likely candidate. Back from his journey he was set to watch her while her usual minders were catching up on their sleep. He'd always been sympathetic, as well as rebellious.

“Nope.”

When she asked, he gave nothing but that one word answer. No matter how good her argument was.

“Nope.”

He wouldn't even look at her as he refused her.

“I'd untie you if it was you stuck here,” she growled.

He answered with a flippant shrug. There was a relieved amusement in his manner, he was glad that she wasn't so sick any more but he also couldn't pass up the opportunity to have some fun at her expense.

She was just trying to come up with a new argument when there was a commotion from outside, a woman shrieked and some men shouted angrily in the distance. Then there was the unmistakable sound of Antonio sobbing. He'd only been back at the Casíta for a single day. Dark clouds gathered overhead and Felix could be heard talking quietly, placatingly, to someone. Camilo bolted to the window and Mirabel watched the colour drain from his face.

“Just give me the girl,” a sickeningly familiar voice called, slurred with alcohol and desperation. “Bring the girl to me now and nobody gets hurt.”

She didn't need to see anything to know that Vargas was holding Antonio hostage. With nobody to work for, Vargas was free to do whatever he wanted. Apparently what he wanted was her.

“You need to untie me now,” she told Camilo. “Fast.”

#madrigal family #encanto fanfic #encanto au #mirabel madrigal #encanto godmother au #madrigal family needs a hug #folk horror

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a-kind-of-merry-war · 3 years

Text

The Beast in the Woods

It’s Christmas Eve for both me and my giftee, so here’s my @thewitchersecretsanta Geraskier fic for @dont-touch-the-phlebotinum 💖 I hope you have a wonderful day! Stay safe & happy holidays ⭐

Geralt, finding it too late to head North for the winter, decides to finally take Jaskier up on his offer to attend the Winter Bardic Competition. But when he arrives in Oxenfurt, Jaskier has vanished, and there’s rumours of an awful beast stalking the lands. Geralt must set out to find him - before the flighty bard finds himself in the jaws of a monster.

13k words, contains: Jaskier injury/illness, creature!Jaskier, fairy tale themes, Geralt taking two decades to admit his feelings. Rated T.

Geralt looked down at the body of the werewolf at his feet. At least: it had been a werewolf, moments ago, when he’d driven his sword through its chest. Now, lying on the leaf litter in a spreading pool of blood, the wolfish figure was melding and melting back to what he once was: a man, just a man.

Guilt bit at Geralt. It hadn’t needed to end this way. Lycanthropy could be cured, if you caught it soon enough or the victim was willing. But he’d arrived too late.

The chances of bringing them back, of making them human again, dropped with every kill. Human blood sealed a curse like cement in a wall. After enough of it, the only way to get rid of it was to tear the whole thing down.

People were running from the village. They must have heard the fight: the werewolf had led him away from the forest towards the farms on the edge of the settlement. It was part of the reason why Geralt had been forced to slay the beast rather than save it: he couldn’t risk any more deaths. As the villagers approached, seeing the scene in front of him, there were gasps and shouts and cries - clearly they knew this man.

He was about to sheath his sword and go to find the alderman amongst the huddle of people when there was a cry - a wail. A woman pushed her way through the crowd, her eyes red-rimmed. She spotted the body at his feet, and cried out again.

“You killed him!” She screamed, extracting herself from the others, “You fucking killed him!”

She collapsed next to the prone body, grabbing at the dead man’s shoulders with her hands, sobbing. The man was bloodied and torn, but she didn’t care, blood on her hands.

Geralt didn’t need to watch this. He knew what happened - knew this scene all too well. He turned, but she shouted at him, her voice cracking through the clearing like a whip.

“Witcher!” She looked up at him from the bloodied dirt, spittle flying from her mouth. “Is that it, then? You kill him and you leave?”

Geralt didn’t respond.

“Oh, but you’ll be paid first,” she spat, “I know you take your payment. You’ll leave here with a bag of someone else’s silver. What about us, Witcher? What about the ones you leave behind, the ones who have to put the pieces back together when there's a part missing? What are we paid?”

Geralt gripped tighter on his sword, taking a step back from the corpse at his feet. The woman continued to shout, snot and spit and tears mingling on her face.

“Where’s my payment, Witcher? What will you pay me, for the cost of a life lost? For the life of my husband? Will you pay me in blood? The knowledge that you’ll never know what it’s like, to be a monster—”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt growled, “You think I don’t—”

“I know you don’t! You don’t know what it’s like to love someone who everyone else thinks is a monster, who people send men like you after!”

“It’s not—”

The woman continued, stepping over the corpse and stalking towards him.

“Maybe I should take the payment of your kind. Your fucking law of surprise. Tell me, Witcher, what do you have that you don’t know you possess?”

“This is over,” said Gerat, turning away, “It’s over. My job is done, here.”

“He was just a man!”

Geralt whirled around. “He killed all those—” He squeezed his eyes shut, gathering himself. It was always like this, one way or another. Always this same. Two evils: greater, lesser. “This conversation is over,” he said, voice terse and clipped.

The woman continued to shout at him - her voice rising to a high pitched scream - but he walked away, sheathing his sword as he went. The alderman would pay him regardless, he knew: always better to be rid of a monster than tolerate one when the wellbeing of hundreds of people fell under your limited power. Her words were just borne of fury and rage and, more than that, the impotence that so many like her felt: powerless to save, powerless to cure, powerless to do anything other than watch and wait for someone else to die.

Geralt had suffered such insults before, such cries. He knew more than most what it was to never leave a job truly finished, for there always to be something left behind. But it was just that: just harsh words, nothing but hot air and venom. He wouldn’t carry those words with him for long - and if they did come back to haunt him, on long lonely nights or midway through a difficult hunt, he’d push them back down.

He was well practiced in ignoring their bile, now.

It was just words, he thought, with a sad shake of his head. Just hot air.

There’s a storm crackling through the air above the Oxenfurt Academy of the Arts. It’s unusually warm as the seasons change, summer melding into autumn, and the hair is hot and humid, pressing against the city dwellers and artists like tepid water, filling their lungs and making them sweat. Creativity is near-impossible under such conditions, and the Basement Bar - cool and shadowed beneath one of Oxenfurt’s many brothels - finds itself packed with students keen to escape the heat.

As they drink and gossip and boast, the storm builds outside, and none of them notice. The air is thick and heavy, the clouds low and dark, obscuring the sunset and then curtaining the moon. When the bar closes and the crowd of people finally stumble into the still-warm street outside, it’s pitch black - aside from the flashes of lightning that occasionally light the sky towards the North of the city.

Thunder rumbles above, and the stone buildings shake.

A bard - drunk and happy - stumbles into the room he’s staying in and tosses his blue doublet, brand new with deep green trim on the cuffs and collar, onto the fraying armchair in the corner of the room, quickly followed by his lightweight shirt and his boots.

He falls backwards onto the bed, his messy brown hair sticking in slick strands to his sweaty forehead, and huffs a quick, too-hot drunken breath before struggling out of his trousers, leaving them puddled on the floor next to the bed.

He pulls away the covers - it’s too warm for them, right now - as a flash of lightning illuminates the small room, sending sudden weird shadows dancing on the furniture and his face. The storm must be right above the building, right overhead, teeming and reeling like an ocean trapped above him.

It isn’t raining. He doesn’t even notice. He winces as the lightning flashes and the thunder roars, sending shockwaves through his already pounding head, then collapses down onto the pillow.

He’s still, for a few moments, taking deep breaths as he wills the room to stop spinning around him. After a minute, one of his hands sneaks up the soft cotton sheet and slides beneath the pillow. He searches - grabs - and pulls something out from under it.

Balled up fabric, wrinkled where it’s been tucked so haphazardly beneath the pillow. Fabric that was once black but is now nearly grey through wash and wear. The bard curls his hand around it, rubs his fingers against it. He brings it to his face and inhales - just once - and makes a noise so quiet that it’s drowned out by another crack of thunder as the sky splits above him.

Soon, he falls asleep, and the storm rages on.

It was a cool, crisp winter morning as Geralt led Roach carefully through a small, half-frozen stream. She trudged carefully through the water as Geralt walked by her side, leading her on. Her breath fogged the air in hot puffs.

They were heading to Oxenfurt.

No - Geralt reminded himself. They weren’t headed to Oxenfurt. They just happened to be near Oxenfurt, and would be visiting the city while he was following leads about something stalking the nearby countryside.

It was nothing to do, of course, with the winter bardic competition that Jaskier had invited him to every year for the past five years and he had, like clockwork, brushed away with a convenient excuse. Typically, he could say that he was heading North for the winter - returning to Kaer Morehn - but he’d taken too many contracts too far south too late into autumn, and by the time he reached the mountains the way through would be totally frozen.

This year, it was an excuse that brought him to the heavy iron gates of the city: he was in the area anyway. Might as well attend, finally. And Jaskier had always told him that if he ever did choose to remain South for winter that they could ride out the season together, offering him a place to stay and a warm hearth. He mentioned it every year, in fact, since they’d started travelling together.

Geralt doubted that Jaskier truly wanted him around for the full three months of snow and ice and unbearably dark evenings, and suspected that the offer was one given with the understanding that Geralt would always refuse. Now, with fewer contracts and nowhere else to go, he would have to finally take him up on it.

He wouldn’t demand Jaskier’s space, especially not in Oxenfurt where Jaskier’s reputation as a bard outweighed his own as a witcher. He would instead ask if Jaskier knew somewhere he could stay - somewhere cheap, ideally - where he could wait out the worst of the weather until the start of spring.

Geralt hadn’t seen Jaskier since they’d parted ways more than six months ago. When they first began travelling together, they could go a year or longer without seeing each other. Now, six months felt like an oddly silent age. Jaskier would be pleased to see him - especially in attendance at what he had been told was “one of the top six events in the Academy’s calendar!”

And - in truth - he was looking forward to seeing Jaskier too. His thoughts had been dark and cloudy since the disastrous werewolf contract, and the widow’s words still tugged at him. Jaskier, all brightness and laughter and constant chatter, would clear those clouds somewhat. He hated to admit it, but it was good knowing that there was always someone who’d be pleased to see him.

The idea of spending a long winter with Jaskier, sharing stories over hearty meals and strong wine, felt almost as appealing as spending it in the keep with his brothers - but distinct in a way he was trying not to dwell on.

The competition wasn’t for another two days, so he stopped at a village half a day’s ride from the city where he would spend the night, if the innkeep was trusting of his kind, and ask around about the beast. He reminded himself, not for the first time, that the creature and the inevitable contract on its head was the reason why he was there - not for the competition, and certainly not for the flighty bard that was continually occupying his thoughts.

He’d heard the first whisperings that something awful was afield nearly four days ago. It was rare for mere rumours to reach so far, so he’d been immediately intrigued, but the merchant who’d been excitedly talking about a mysterious monster just outside Oxenfurt had been unable to tell him more than a vague story about a shadow in the forest and a couple of dead sheep. As far as he could tell, the so-called monster hadn’t even killed anyone.

It wasn’t much - and usually, Geralt would opt to ignore the story as just another man trying to make himself seem more interesting and get a few free drinks - but there was something about it that made him stop. Geralt had learnt after countless years on the Path to trust his gut instincts, and this story hooked into him like one of Jaskier’s fucking songs. Perhaps there was more to it than just rumour.

The little village he’d chosen to rest in seemed friendly enough, and soon Roach was fed and stabled and he was enjoying a good meal in the tavern, seated at a shadowy corner table. The room was otherwise empty, save for a man leaning against the bar, his head bent low over a bowl of cheap-looking broth. A farmer, judging by the dirt on his hands and the sun-bleached cap he had pulled low over his ears. When Geralt had entered, the man had peered up at him, eyes wide.

The farmer was still hovering by the time Geralt had finished his meal, eyeing him nervously. This wasn’t unusual - many folk were afraid to approach a witcher directly. He returned to the bar, acquired a pint of suspiciously pale ale and turned to the farmer.

“I’ve heard stories that there’s something in the woods nearby,” he said, sipping at his pint and keeping careful eye contact. “Know anything about it?”

The farmer paled as much as the beer.

“Aye,” he said, quietly. “But they’re no stories, witcher. They’re true. There’s something out there.”

“What sort of something?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s big. Real big.”

“I heard there’s been no attacks? No deaths?”

“No human deaths.”

“Meaning?”

“Sheep. A few cattle. Not many. I just… there’s not been a kill in a week or so. But I know there’s something out there. I can’t go looking for it myself, witcher. I can’t leave Anje to look after Miriam alone, and the boys, and the farm...”

“You’re worried it might return?”

“I am. Gods help me, I am. It only took one of our cows, but we can’t afford to lose another. It took a few sheep from Boris, about a mile away, and a couple more from down the road.”

Geralt sipped at the disgusting beer, thinking. The man was desperate - and terrified.

“You actually saw it?”

“I saw something.”

“Describe it.”

“It was on the edge of the forest. I thought it was a shadow, at first, when it moved… huge, it was. Taller than me. Covered in dark fur.”

Geralt frowned. “A werewolf?”

The man shook his head. “Pardon, Witcher, because I’ve not seen a werewolf before, but I’ve seen pictures and… I don’t think it’s a wolf. It’s the wrong shape for a wolf, and there’s been no howling. And…”

“Yes?”

“Well. Werewolves. I’ve heard they leave a… a mess. They destroy the things they kill?”

Geralt thought back to the things he’d found in the wake of his last contract with a werewolf. He nodded, silently.

“This… this one don’t. The stuff that got killed… it was like it took a few bites from them and left them. Not torn to bits like you might expect.”

“Hmm.”

That was strange. The sorts of beasts Geralt hunted weren’t often known for clean kills, especially not things described as huge and hairy.

“Look, sir,” the man reached a hand across the bar, then immediately retracted it. “It’s been a few weeks. We might be safe. And I don’t… I don’t have much to pay you.”

Geralt sighed. He was getting soft.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, gently. “Although it might not be much. I need to move on tomorrow, but I’ll be back in a few days, maybe a week.”

Hopefully with help, he thought. Perhaps the addition of a chatty bard might loosen the lips of some of the other villagers who were too suspicious to talk to a witcher.

The man nodded. “Thank you, witcher,” he said. “Thank you.”

By the time Geralt had left the tavern and bartered a room for the night at the inn next door, it was already growing dark - the winter evening quickly setting in. The village was quiet, so he used the last of the daylight to quickly scout the edge of the forest, a short walk from the last farmhouse.

It was an imposing sight, especially in the dark: the trees tall and closely packed, blocking what little light there was. He stalked the edge, feet crunching through half-frozen leaves, his senses honed. There were the usual signs of life - the droppings of prey animals, the occasional scent rubbed against a tree, the sounds of owls and foxes screaming from the depths of the woods.

But nothing like a monster. He’d been hoping, at least, to find a splash of dried blood - but the most he came across was the remains of a rabbit, clearly the victim of a fox or cat.

Soon, night had truly set in and the moon was a thin sliver in the sky - useless for lighting up the ground around him. He only had a couple of vials of Cat left, and using one now, before he was even sure there was something to hunt, seemed a waste.

Empty handed, and with no more to go on than when he’d left, he returned to the village.

Geralt awoke early, before the sun had risen, a thick layer of frost still on the ground. Dawn wouldn’t be for another few hours, but he was keen to arrive in Oxenfurt with enough time to find both somewhere to stay that wasn’t too crowded as well as Jaskier. It was an easy ride, and this early in the morning so deep into winter he was the only one on the road, making quick time with his thick, fur-lined woolen cloak pulled tight around his shoulders.

He soon found himself approaching the Eastern Novigrad Gate, the recognisable structure looming from the early morning fog. The sun was finally up, casting a pale, cool light over the stonework and making the water beneath sparkle.

There was something almost like anxiety squeezing in Geralt’s chest. He thought of Jaskier, no doubt still asleep, almost certainly hungover, sprawled in his bed, totally unaware that Geralt was mere minutes away.

And then another thought. His bed, or someone else’s? Would Geralt’s sudden appearance be seen as an intrusion to Jaskier’s more amorous pursuits in a city filled with lovers and romantics?

An unpleasant little twist of jealousy snaked its way around the anxiety. Geralt pushed it back. Jaskier was allowed to have other… friends.

Dismounting Roach, Geralt led her the rest of the way across the bridge. The guards leant sleepily against the walls, barely registering his approach, and aside from a few suspicious looks he entered without any difficulty.

After booking a room in a cheap inn right on the edge of the town and a quiet stable for Roach, he stashed his swords and the heaviest of his armour inside and headed into the heart of the city, towards the Academy.

Even this early it was bustling with life, and as he approached the Academy he noticed several students glancing at him, hurrying away, sharing whispers behind hands with their friends. This was nothing unusual: people were always pointing at the witcher.

He turned the corner towards the group of buildings that comprised the Academy itself, pushing his way through the growing crowd of busy students. A stage was being erected in the central courtyard, surrounded by people at work - nailing things down, hanging decorations, prancing about on the wooden boards. This was where Jaskier would be, he knew: right in the middle of it all. He approached the group, scanning them.

“Geralt?”

He spun around. There was a young, pretty woman standing behind him with a shock of long, blonde hair and a ridiculous feathered hat. In her hands she held a tangle of red and gold coloured bunting.

“It is Geralt, isn’t it?” She continued.

“I… yes.” Geralt blinked. “How…”

“Oh, Jaskier’s always going on about you. You’re pretty recognisable.” She looked him up and down, and Geralt felt like he was being appraised. “He wasn’t wrong. I was expecting him to be exaggerating, to be honest.”

“Exaggerating wha—”

“Anyway,” she rearranged the bundle in her arms and stuck out a hand. “I’m Priscilla. Wait, shit, no,” she giggled, “Callonetta. Sorry. Still getting used to stage names.”

Geralt shook her hand as she grinned at him.

“So,” she continued before Geralt could say anything, leaning to look behind him, “Where is he?”

Geralt frowned. “Where’s who?”

“Jaskier. We figured he was with you.”

Geralt hesitated.

“I came here looking for him,” he said, slowly. “Thought I’d… surprise him.”

“Shit,” she looked worried, “that’s… we all thought he was with you. Shit.”

“When did you last see him?”

She shook her head. “Early autumn. He was here for a few weeks then he just up and left. I mean, that’s what he usually does, he gets bored and buggers off without any proper goodbyes, but…” she chewed on her lip. “When did you last see him?”

“A while ago. Seven or eight months.”

She looked truly worried, now. “He always comes to the competitions. We thought he was just late because he was off with you, but if not…”

“Maybe he’s just busy,” said Geralt, trying to reassure himself as much as Priscilla. “You know what he’s like, probably fallen in love with someone and gotten distracted.”

She peered at him, and he couldn’t read her expression. “No,” she said, finally, “I don’t think it’s that.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you think… d’you think he’s alright?”

“He’s probably—” Geralt cut himself off before he could finish the lie. “I don’t know.”

Priscilla paled. “Can you find him?”

He didn’t need to be found. Jaskier was perfectly capable of looking after himself. He didn’t need Geralt traipsing after him, worrying about him, getting in his way.

“I can find him,” Geralt said. “Where was the last place he stayed? Maybe I can start there…”

“He’d gotten a room in the Stag,” said Priscilla, “I’ll show you. But he left so long ago, I’m not sure if you’ll find anything…”

The bundle of bunting still gripped in her hands, Priscilla spun around on her heel and began to stalk away. With nothing else to do, Geralt followed.

Fucking bards.

The Stag turned out to be a sizable, if slightly out-of-date inn a ten minute walk from the Academy. The small room on the ground floor was mostly full of faded, mismatched furniture along with a creaking bookcase, full of leather-bound works. A long counter ran along one side, behind which was a door leading to a shadowy back room.

“Elisa?” Priscilla leant over the counter, dumping the bunting onto it, calling into the back room. “Hello?”

“Just a minute!”

There was a crash, and then a tall, plump woman appeared from the doorway, her dark hair pulled into a messy top-knot on the top of her head with a cleaning cloth in her hands. She spotted Priscilla and grinned, then her eyes fell on Geralt. She was immediately intrigued, that much was clear, her eyebrows shooting up.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice honeyed, “who’s this, Pris?”

Priscilla placed one elbow on the counter and joined the woman - Elisa - in assessing Geralt. He felt pinned beneath their twin gazes, awkward and out of place.

“This,” said Priscilla, after a suitably long pause, “is Geralt.”

“Good Gods,” Elisa said, eyes going wide, “Geralt? The Geralt? Never thought I’d actually meet you.”

Geralt felt a little odd, being so well-known to all these people.

“I don’t—” He began, but Priscilla cut him off before he could continue.

“The Geralt,” she said with a smile.

“Well,” Elisa breathed in apparent awe, “What can I do for you?”

“It’s Jaskier.” Priscilla leant back, folding her arms across her chest.

“What’s he gotten himself into this time?”

“That’s the thing, we don’t know. We don’t know where he is.”

Elisa frowned, and turned to Geralt. “I thought he’d be back for the competition...”

“So did I,” Priscilla sighed. “We both did.”

“And you’ve not seen him either?”

Geralt shook his head. “No. I think this is the last place he stayed. Did he tell you where he was going? Or did you see anything in his room… maps, plans, even clothes… anything would be useful.”

The jolly smile was gone, and now the woman looked just as worried as Priscilla.

“No, he just paid and left one evening… I thought it was odd, but, ah, you know Jaskier. He’s always off somewhere or other.”

“Odd how?” Asked Geralt, quickly.

“He was acting strange. Quiet. Quiet for Jaskier, anyway.” She started to fiddle with the cloth in her hands. “He didn’t say where he was going. Usually he’s all chatter about where he’s off to next, some adventure… but he just paid and left.”

“Did he take his things with him? All of them?” Geralt swallowed, trying not to give in to the growing fear in his stomach. “His lute?”

“All of them.” Elisa paused, her brows furrowed in thought. “Wait, now, there was one thing. He left something behind. I remember, I got one of the girls to put it aside for when he came back…”

She vanished back through the door. Geralt and Priscilla glanced at each other but said nothing, waiting.

“Ah! Here we are…”

She reappeared, a bundle of black fabric neatly folded in her hands.

“We found this when we were cleaning out the room,” she said, passing the bundle to Geralt. “It was in the bed, under the pillow. He must have forgotten it.”

He took it from her with a frown, then unfurled it.

“A shirt?” Priscilla shrugged. “He’s always leaving stuff like that behind, that’s nothing unusual.”

Geralt swallowed. “This…” Fuck, he didn’t even know these women. “This is my shirt.”

They stared at him, and very quickly he wished he hadn’t said anything. Before either of them could respond, he bundled the shirt into his satchel and took a step back, towards the door.

“I’m going to find him,” he said, leaving no room for argument. “I’ll bring him back here when I do. Is there anyone else who might know where he went?”

Priscilla shrugged. “He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving,” she said, “we just thought he was being impulsive. Like I said, we thought he was with you.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “We were talking about him just last night, saying that he was so late…”

“I will find him,” Geralt said. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, but Priscilla smiled at him, a little sadly.

“I know you will,” she said.

Geralt rode back through the city gates and along the eastern bridge. He was thankful that he’d only paid for a night’s lodgings in the inn - it meant that he could afford to lose the coin when he’d returned and told the innkeeper he was leaving right away.

Fuck. He really could have stayed - a single night was unlikely to have made much difference considering no one had seen Jaskier for six weeks or so - but doing so felt wrong. He needed to set out. Jaskier wasn’t in Oxenfurt: that much he knew. So he needed to keep moving.

It was still light, but the darkness was coming on earlier each night and he knew he didn’t have many hours of sunlight left. Even if he was forced to stop somewhere before properly beginning his search, at least he would have started.

Geralt had left Priscilla with a worried smile on her face and the reassurance that he would manage to find Jaskier. He’d probably just gotten lost, or distracted, he said. Perhaps he’d pissed off the wrong people and was waiting for someone to bail him out. There were dozens of ways a man like Jaskier could become waylaid, he said to her, trying to convince them both that Jaskier would be fine.

He had failed to share with Priscilla the awful little thought that had been prickling at him since learning Jaskier was missing. It would only worry her more.

He thought of the rumours of the beast stalking the empty miles around Oxenfurt, and spurred Roach into a canter.

He remembered what the terrified farmer had said in that tiny village outside the city: that the beast hadn’t killed any people, just animals. But would anyone have truly noticed if the creature had killed a stranger that no one expected to be there? A wandering traveller who hadn’t passed through any of the villages could be eaten alive and no one would ever know: especially if the creature had a habit of killing its victims as neatly as the farmer had described.

Geralt’s instincts - honed and poised - had told him there was more to the rumours of a monster outside Oxenfurt than he would usually assume. Perhaps this was why.

The further he travelled, the more convinced he was that the farmer had got it right. Perhaps, bored of waiting and uninspired by the competition, Jaskier had set out alone, looking for adventure. And flippant and flighty and friendly as he was, he could have easily heard the stories of a beast hidden in the woods. It would not have come as a shock to hear he’d gone looking for it himself, just to catch a glimpse.

At the crossroads before the village, Geralt stopped. He was struck with the image - sudden and viscerally real - of Jaskier, head in the clouds and lute strapped to his back, being hunted down by something large and wild and deadly.

He reached into his satchel, fingers grasping around the shirt that Jaskier had left behind. He pulled it out and looked at it, twisting the thin, wrinkled fabric around his gloved hand. And then - in a movement more unconscious than deliberate - he lifted the shirt to his face, inhaling its scent.

It hit him like a punch, winding him. It had been seven months since he’d last seen Jaskier, but that smell - so utterly him - made it feel like he was right there beside him, singing away, strumming at that infernal lute.

Geralt shoved the shirt back into the bag and veered left, heading towards the wood, ignoring the darkness growing around him.

There was something unsettling about the forest - the closeness of the trees, the broadness of their trunks. Travelling deeper into it felt like sinking underwater, silence closing in around him. The sinking sun, which had been threatening to blind him before, was almost completely blocked by the thick canopy of leaves.

He moved slowly, riding Roach and then dismounting to better guide her over fallen branches and hidden roots. As he slid from her back, he unsheathed his sword. It was easy to believe that there really was something hiding here, lurking in the dark.

There were no paths here, no well-worn trails, not even those left behind by animals. He slid between branches, in and out of shadows, around entire toppled trees and ponds masked with fallen leaves. With no clear scent to follow or traces to track, Geralt was following instinct alone. He walked for hours, quickly losing track of both direction and time. He should have rested, he knew, at least to meditate for a while, but urgency spurred him on.

He couldn’t stop. Not yet. He’d rather walk all night through this cursed forest than stop.

So walk all night he did.

Instinct led him to a clearing, swathed in darkness. The trees were sparser, here, the ground moist beneath his feet. Perhaps he’d finally reached the edge of the forest. He headed forwards, hoping there might be something beyond the thicket of trees, any kind of indication of the creature he was looking for.

The light, little that it was now the moon had hidden, grew steadily, and soon Geralt found himself stepping from the treeline into an enormous clearing. And at the very edge of the clearing, partly obscured by trees and sprawling, creeping vines, were the remains of a partially destroyed castle.

The structure jutted weirdly from the ground like broken bones. The centre of the castle was largely intact, but the paired towers flanking it had tumbled, the enormous stones cracked and faded where they lodged in the soft earth like gravestones.

In front of the building was a stone courtyard, weeds and bushes and even small trees forcing themselves through the cracks in the bricks, leading to a wide door.

Geralt suppressed the shudder that ran down his back. If there was something hiding in the woods, this was where it would be: of that much he was sure.

The space around the ruins was wide and empty, and Geralt knew he should take the opportunity to rest and eat before exploring the castle itself. He left Roach stamping nervously beneath a tree on the edge of the clearing, then began to search through her saddlebags for food, the sword still held in one hand.

Something moved in the trees to his left. Quick, four-legged - darting between shadows. Then again, behind him. He spun around, sword raised, ready to strike.

A low growl came from the woods beside him.

The wolf was quick, but Geralt was quicker. It leapt, jaw snapping, and Geralt swiftly side-stepped out of the way, bringing down the hilt of his sword against its body as he did. The wolf was thrown off balance, skidding across the ground, before leaping back to its feet.

Geralt danced towards the centre of the clearing as the wolf advanced once more, the cloak still fastened around his neck swirling as he did. Roach squealed and Geralt spun to see a further four of the huge animals creep from the trees. They were enormous: larger than the wolves he typically dealt with, their fur tangled and matted, teeth dripping with saliva.

Ghouls and kikimores and drowners were nothing compared to a starving, desperate wolfpack. There would be more hidden out there, of that he could be certain, and as soon as these few had the advantage over him the rest would advance for a quicker, easier kill.

The nearest one snapped at him, then jumped forwards. He took a quick swipe with his sword, taking a step back, then hit back with a blast of Aard. Two of the wolves got caught in the shockwave, staggering backwards with twin barks, but the remaining three began to circle, cutting off any chance of escape, trapping him between them.

There was a howl in the forest, far too close for comfort.

And the wolves attacked.

It was a blur of fur and fangs and steel. Geralt doged and rolled, skidding across the wet ground, ducking away from deadly teeth and dirt-clogged claws. It was near-impossible to land a blow when he was being attacked from so many directions, only able to jump out of the way and block where he could. He managed a few quick catches - the steel swiping shallowly through fur - but nothing that would bring the beasts down.

Shit. He was outnumbered and exhausted. He spun, arm aching, and caught the nearest wolf across its back. With an anguished howl it dropped, but there wasn’t time to rest as another took a leap at him.

He swung at that, too, but his aim was wide and the wolf crashed into his chest, throwing him to the ground. As he fell, his sword spun from his hand, and the wolf pinned him to the mud, its snarling maw inches from his face. Geralt struggled, trying to push it off, but the beast was too heavy.

The wolf’s breath stank, made even more noxious by Geralt’s heightened senses. He shifted beneath its weight, and the wolf took the opportunity, suddenly jerking down, its teeth slipping towards his neck.

And then it was gone, pulled away with a sharp yelp.

Geralt rolled over and scrambled to his feet just in time to see -

Fuck.

The creature was real.

The wolf looked tiny in the jaws of the beast that tossed it aside like it weighed nothing at all. It was a good three foot taller than Geralt and twice as broad, covered in coarse, dark brown hair. The body was bear-like, huge and powerful, with a jaw and snout more reminiscent of a wolf. Its huge arms ended in long, lethal-looking claws.

Its eyes were blue.

Geralt had never seen a creature like this with such blue eyes before.

But the monster was distracted - more interested in the wolves than Geralt - rushing quickly at the next animal to throw itself at them. Geralt pirouetted out of the way as the creature met the wolf head-on, grabbing it in its claws as the wolf dug its teeth into its neck. Geralt took the opportunity and shot an Igni fireball towards two of the approaching wolves, sending them skittering back. He ran forwards, determined to either kill them or force them to flee, firing another flash of Igni towards them.

They howled, the smell of scorched fur filling the clearing, turned tail and ran back into the forest.

Geralt took a moment to catch his breath, turning just in time to see the creature pull the wolf from around its neck, dropping it to the floor. The wolf twitched, twice, then stilled. The beast twisted to face Geralt, blood on its snout, its eyes flashing. Geralt’s fingers squeezed the hilt of his sword, ready to fight again.

The creature took a step forward. Geralt reacted instinctively, darting out with his sword, bringing it down in a wide arc as high as he could reach on the towering beast.

But instead of attacking, or even countering the blow, the creature fell backwards, stumbling over its own too-large feet with a roar.

“No!”

It was more of a bark than a word - a growling, shuddering sound that exploded from its throat. Geralt hesitated. He could have just imagined it, fear and exhaustion clouding his reason. He kept his hand wrapped around his sword and took another step forward.

“Geralt!”

That was unmistakable. He lowered his sword.

It really was like nothing he’d ever seen before. The farmer had been correct: it was no werewolf, that he could be sure of. Geralt had spent years studying creatures in the library of Kaer Morhen, and even longer encountering them on the Path, but this was something new. Something different.

The inky blackness of the night sky was fading, turning purple as the sun finally began to rise. The creature - part wolf, part bear - staggered back up to its feet, looking over Geralt’s head towards the smudge of colour streaking above the trees.

And then a single streak of bright, early morning sunlight burst over the canopy.

The creature growled. The growl became a choke - a cough - and then the fur began to slough away, like it was being washed away by invisible rain. It dropped to its knees with a shudder, the snout shrinking, the claws retracting slowly back into the paws. Paws which were quickly becoming hands.

Its face was changing shape, nose shrinking, the eyes sliding into place - and even before the transformation was truly complete Geralt knew, knew the face that he’d come to recognise as much as any of his brothers’ faces, as much as his own.

Jaskier.

With a rattling gasp, Jaskier slumped forwards, his hands lunging out and digging into the mud. The last of the dark fur fell from his shoulders and he looked up, a dazzling ray of dawn sunlight splashing across his face.

He looked awful. His face was thin, with huge, dark circles beneath his eyes. His hair was unkempt and sneaking past his ears, his chest skinny. There were puncture marks in his neck where the wolf had attacked him, little trickles of blood edging towards his clavicle.

Geralt could see his ribs.

Unthinking, he fell to his knees, unclasping the cloak and sweeping it over Jaskier’s shoulders in a single, swift movement.

“Jaskier,” he breathed, tugging the thick fabric around Jaskier’s naked form, “What happened to you?”

Jaskier coughed, shuddering beneath Geralt’s hands. He smiled, showing off bloodied teeth.

“I don’t know.”

Geralt poked at the fire roaring in the huge, dusty hearth. He’d scraped away Jaskier’s previous, rather pitiful attempts and with an armful of dried logs and a powerful burst of Igni he had soon managed to get a real fire going.

Jaskier shuddered, pulling Geralt’s cape closer. He’d dressed quickly when they’d entered the room from a heap of worn clothes - but had kept the cloak on, wrapped around himself like a blanket. Geralt didn’t ask for it back.

The huge room that Jaskier had made his hiding space had once been a dining hall, or perhaps a ballroom. The ceilings were high, the walls coated in flaking paint. Along one wall were several tall, thin windows, through which Geralt could see the trees and the bright morning sun. The drapes which had clearly once hung there had been torn down, and were now piled in a kind of nest in front of the fireplace, along with perhaps half a dozen old, moth-eaten blankets and sheets.

This was where Jaskier had been sleeping. He’d let himself fall back onto the soft pile as soon as Geralt had gotten him back inside, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

As the fire warmed him, colour started to return to his face, and he let go a little of the cloak, his fingers twitching and fiddling with the furry edge. The bite marks on his neck had stopped bleeding, the skin around them purpling with a quickly-spreading bruise. The creature was clearly more sturdy than Jaskier was.

“Jaskier…” He reached out, then suddenly thought better, letting his hand drop uselessly to his side. “What happened?”

Jaskier peered at him, and again Geralt was struck by how sick he looked.

“Nothing,” he said, finally. “At least… I did nothing. Geralt, you know me. If I’d brought this upon myself I’d tell you…” He sighed. “It just… it just happened. The last time I’d been near a magic user was the last time I saw you.”

“When was the first time?”

He shrugged. “Weeks ago. Two months, longer. Autumn. The first time was a full moon. I thought…” he laughed, the sound hollow, echoing from his chest, “I thought I was turning into a werewolf. It was just one night. I was so scared, Geralt, I ran… I woke up in an empty warehouse near the docks. I was so worried I’d killed someone… I ran, naked, back to the Academy and spent the whole day asking around - if anyone had heard about any attacks, any accidents. But nothing.”

Geralt watched him, staying silent, letting him speak.

“And then the next time it happened two days before the full moon,” he continued, “and it lasted till two days after. By then, I’d left Oxenfurt. I couldn’t bear the thought of…” he swallowed, gripping the blanket tighter. “I stayed away from villages or towns. Kept to woods, forests. I was like that for five nights, but it was only at night. I had to steal clothes that people had hung out to dry, Geralt, just so I could beg for food in a tavern.”

“It was the fifth day that I found this place,” he gestured up at the high stone walls. “Someone in one of the villages mentioned it offhandedly, and I thought it might be safe. Safe for me, safe for everyone else.”

“But then it got worse. It wasn’t just the full moon, it was every night, as soon as the moon was up. Then it was when the stars were out. As soon as it was dark. Twilight. Dusk. Suddenly I was more it than me. At one point I thought of coming to find you, I thought you might know what I was… but it was too dangerous. And, gods,” he ran his hand through the tangled nest that his hair had become, “I didn’t know where you fucking were. By the time I found you, it could have been…”

He drooped his shoulders.

“Could have been what?”

Jaskier’s chin crinkled, his lips twitching. His eyes, already red, shone with tears.

“Too late,” he said, voice cracking.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true, Geralt. It’s not just the changing. It’s not just becoming a monster as soon as the fucking sun sets. It’s…” He sighed, the breath wheezing from his chest. “The first time, it felt…ah, Geralt, I felt strong. Like I was energy and muscle and power. I thought - Gods - I wondered if it was how you felt. But every time it’s less. Transforming hurts, and turning back hurts, and it was only a few weeks until all that power was gone. It’s exhausting. I’m so fucking tired, Geralt. And not just when I’m it, when I’m human too. I can barely leave this room.” He finished, quietly.

Geralt resisted the urge to simply pull Jaskier into his arms, to hold him. He seemed so much more fragile than the last time they’d been together: not just because he was clearly sick, but in himself, too. He’d never known Jaskier to give up like this.

“I should have come sooner.”

“How? You didn’t even know anything was wrong with me. I—” He stopped himself, peering at Geralt with a critical eye. “How did you find me?”

“There’s rumours,” Geralt said, “In the villages. A monster in the forest. A farmer asked me to find out what was killing their animals.”

“Fuck.”

“Was it you?”

Jaskier looked guilty. “I was so hungry. I stopped going into villages when I was me, because I was terrified of what might happen. So, one evening, after I’d changed…”

“You went after animals.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier rubbed at his eyes. “It was awful. All… blood and viscera. When I turned back a few hours later I was sick. But it helped, for a while.” He paused. “There’s a contract on my head, then? A bag of coins for the… the beast?”

“Not quite. Just a couple of desperate farmers asking for help.”

“So why go looking?”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“I was in Oxenfurt.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “What? Aren’t you supposed to be in Kaer Morhen for the winter?”

Geralt shook his head. “I took too many contracts in the South. Couldn’t make it back in time. And…”

“And?”

“I was looking for you. You always invite me to the Winter competition. Thought I’d show up, for once.”

“Oh Geralt.” Jaskier looked pleased. For the first time since finding him, the smile that split his face actually reached his eyes. Geralt could sense the happiness on him - the faint smell of honey beneath the more overwhelming musk of fur and dust. “And the one time you actually show up I wasn’t even there.”

“Everyone’s worried about you, you know.”

“What?”

“I met a woman in the city. Priscilla. She thought you were with me, I thought you were at the Academy. It’s why no one had tried to find you already.”

“She asked you to find me?”

“She did. But I’d have done it anyway. I’d heard about the monster near the city, and…” He faltered, struggling to finish that thought.

“You thought it had killed me. That’s why you were looking for it.”

“I thought it had killed you and nobody noticed.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Not yet, anyway.”

He said it with a certainty that made Geralt’s blood run cold. Before he could placate him with empty reassurances, Jaskier had grabbed his hand.

“Geralt, I need to know,” he said. “Do you know what this is? What’s happening to me?”

Jaskier’s gaze bore into him, and he couldn’t bear it. Geralt looked back towards the fire, letting it blind him.

“No.”

It was all there was to say. He heard Jaskier’s breath hitch, but couldn’t turn to look at him, couldn’t risk seeing the expression on his face.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

Another breath - another stuttering, silenced sob. Geralt finally shifted, meeting Jaskier’s broken gaze.

Fuck. It was like he’d signed his death warrant himself, like his blood was on Geralt’s hands. Jaskier had been clinging to the hope that Geralt would know what to do - strong, dependable, experienced Geralt - and he’d smashed that hope with a single word.

“But we can fix it.” Geralt said, squeezing Jaskier’s hand.

“How? You said it yourself: you don’t know what it is.”

“Not the specifics. But… this is a spell, or a curse. It’s magic. We just need to find a mage, and—”

He was cut off by a hoarse chuckle from Jaskier. “Where do you propose we find a mage?”

“Perhaps in Rinde, or Novigrad… ”

“Both four days ride away. Longer, as I can only travel during the daylight, and longer still considering I can barely walk from one end of this room to the other.”

“You can ride Roach, I’ll walk.”

Another laugh with no life behind it.

“What a privilege. I only get to ride her when I’m dying.”

“You’re not—”

“Hate to disagree with you, Geralt, but I rather think I might be.”

“No. I refuse.” Jaskier raised his eyebrows, but Geralt continued. “You need to rest. We both do. Later, I’ll find us something to eat. Perhaps eating while you’re human might help, a little… And then as soon as the sun’s up tomorrow we’ll leave.”

“But—”

“I’m getting you help. I can’t fix this, but there are people out there who can. We’re going to find one of them.”

Jaskier just smiled at him. It was clear he didn’t believe him.

“We should sleep. You need to conserve your energy for tomorrow.”

Geralt had brought his things, sparse as they were, into the dilapidated building with him, leaving Roach in a well-sized building outside which might once have been a stable - or perhaps a drawing room. He took his bedroll and blanket and added them to the pile - the heap that Jaskier had been sleeping tangled up in. He settled beneath the blanket, then looked across at Jaskier, still sat awkwardly with the cloak wrapped around him, shivering slightly.

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

“Are you still cold?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“Sorry. I’ll stop. You sleep, Geralt.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Even cursed and weakened, Jaskier was stubborn. He lifted his arm, beckoning for Jaskier to join him beneath the blanket.

“Come here.”

For a moment, he thought Jaskier was going to comply, but he held himself back, his expression pained.

“I can’t, Geralt.”

“How many beds have we shared, Jaskier? How many bedrolls? Why now are you being—”

“It’s not that.” Jaskier cut him off, looking down at his hands, his dirtied fingernails. “I can’t… what if I hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I change, and attack you? What if it takes over, and I can’t stop it…”

“You saved me earlier. You’ve not attacked anyone, we both know that.”

“Not yet. But what if I do? What if I don’t even know I’m doing it…”

“You won’t. Jaskier, I saw you like that. You were in control, even if you didn’t realise it. And anyway,” he gestured again to the space beneath his arm, “I’m a witcher. You couldn’t take me down if you tried.”

Jaskier smiled softly at the barb - the familiar tease.

“You know, I’ve not…” He began to twist his fingers around each other once more, “I’ve not shared a bed with anyone since that first time. This is the closest I’ve been to another person in weeks.”

Geralt paused. To spend so long without the constant chatter of others, without unnecessary smalltalk and pushing bodies and infuriating closeness, seemed ideal to him. Seven weeks of solitude sounded like a dream.

But this was Jaskier, Jaskier who was obsessed with other people, with gossip and story and talking till his throat hurt. Jaskier who was always reaching out, always touching, always grabbing - softly casual touches, embraces, kisses on cheeks and lips, a new bedfellow every other day.

For him, it must have been a nightmare.

Geralt finally lowered his arm then stood, grabbing both the blanket and bedroll and dragging it over to where Jaskier was sitting.

“Geralt, what are you—”

“No arguments. Lie down.”

“But—”

“Jaskier.” He looked at him, cautiously. The smell of fear prickled from his skin. “You won’t hurt me. Even if you tried, you couldn’t. It’s fine.”

Jaskier seemed to be aware that there was no point arguing, and finally unclasped the cloak as he scooted closer, letting Geralt wrap his arm and the heavy winter blanket around him. Even through layers of clothes, Geralt could feel how cold he was, and bit back a gasp as his cold feet connected with Geralt’s leg.

He lay there stiffly between Geralt’s arms, clearly unsure, and Geralt could hear his heart quietly pattering. He leant forwards till his lips were nearly pressed against Jaskier’s ear.

“Relax,” he whispered.

Jaskier made a soft, startled noise, then finally let himself soften, his muscles loosening, melting into Geralt’s touch. Geralt pulled him closer, sliding a hand down his side to rest against his stomach, and Jaskier sniffed.

“Even if you can’t cure me…” Jaskier pillowed his head on Geralt’s arm, his back flush against Geralt’s chest. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, just held him tighter and waited, hyper-aware of the sound of his breathing and the fluttering of his heart, until he fell asleep between his arms.

Bright sunlight was spilling through the high windows, illuminating the floating specks of dust that danced through the air. Geralt shifted, waking slowly, feeling warm and comfortable. For a moment, it was like nothing had happened. It would have been easy to believe that he was in some inn after a hunt, or even on the floor of a forest, Jaskier sleeping peacefully, pressed close against him.

He opened his eyes unwillingly, taking in the room around him, the sunlight pooling on the pile of curtains and blankets where they’d slept.

Careful not to wake the bard, Geralt slowly sat up, pulling his now numb arm out from under him. Jaskier wriggled, but didn’t wake up. The fire had shrunk, and Geralt quickly restocked it, feeding the flames with Igni before grabbing his cloak from the floor.

When he turned, Jaskier was awake, staring at him from beneath Geralt’s blanket.

“I’m going to find something to eat,” Geralt explained, pulling on the cloak. “I shouldn’t be long.”

Jaskier blinked at him sleepily, then sat up, hair mussed.

“Geralt.”

Geralt knelt beside him. His expression was tired and lost and so horribly sincere. “Yes?”

He smiled. “Try not to get eaten by wolves.”

Geralt let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. “I’ll try not to. Go back to sleep.”

Geralt left Jaskier gently snoozing in the pile of torn-down drapes and blankets and headed out into the forest. The presence of a monster clearly hadn’t frightened any of the wild creatures still living in the woods - perhaps because Jaskier had been too cautious to actually try and catch any of them. He had vague intentions of bringing down a deer with his crossbow - something large enough to last them several days.

It worried him how thin Jaskier was. He’d promised him that they’d get help, and it was becoming clear that they didn’t have time to waste. They’d eat well this evening, take some meat with them, and the rest he could cook and cure overnight on a low fire. It might last them a week or so. He hoped it wouldn’t take them much longer than that to find a mage. He wished that he knew where the hell Yen was.

He made his way over the ruined courtyard into the thick forest beyond. The winter sun was bright - it was probably still early afternoon - but the space beneath the trees was already bathed in shadow. For all his fear, Jaskier had at least chosen a good place to hide - only a fool would be brave enough to creep through here. Geralt picked his way under branches and enormous felled trees, their roots jutting haphazardly into the air like broken fingers, keeping his body low and his breathing quiet.

Here and there were signs of life - scent trails rubbed against a tree, scraps of fur, droppings and footprints. He pulled the crossbow out and squatted against a tree, his back pressed to the bark, and waited.

It took longer than he had expected for something to cross his path. A doe, several meters away, picking her way between the trees. As silently as he could, he clicked the bolt in place, and aimed.

As Geralt made his way back to the ruins, the deer slung across his shoulders and the sun truly set, it began to snow. Lightly at first, but by the time he’d reached the courtyard the flakes were falling thick and fast. He pushed aside the broken door and shook the snowflakes from his hair as he trudged the long corridor towards the room Jaskier had made into his home these past several weeks. The structure that had once been the kitchen was totally destroyed, so he’d have to skin the deer elsewhere. Probably in the corridor, or the central room itself.

His mind full of the intricacies of properly skinning and treating game, he made his way into Jaskier’s hideout, the orange light from the fire flickering through the empty doorway and across the cold stone floor. He dropped the deer and headed towards the pile of blankets where he’d left Jaskier gently sleeping a few hours ago.

Jaskier had tangled himself up in the musty fabric, buried beneath a thick bolt of cloth, and Geralt tugged it back. Sometime during his absence, Jaskier had changed again - probably just before the sun had completely set. The clothes he’d been wearing to sleep were torn and tattered around him, destroyed by the transformation. As Geralt pulled back the cloth to better see him, he twitched, wriggled, and opened his eyes. He looked tired.

“Grl’t—”

The noise came low, rumbling and hoarse as Jaskier tried to sit up from the nest of blankets. His chest was rising and falling too quick. Something was wrong. Geralt dropped the blanket and bent lower, listening to the erratic thumping of Jaskier’s heart. It sounded strained.

Fuck. Of course it did. That would be why Jaskier was so weak, why each transformation left him feeling worse: his heart couldn’t cope with the constant state of flux. This wasn’t like any curse he’d seen before - despite the changes, Jaskier was still human, at his core. Fragile and easily broken.

Fear gripped at him, making his blood run cold. What if he really was too late? What if the damage was already too much, and Jaskier wouldn’t even make it a few days on the road?

With a groan, Jaskier leaned up on his enormous arms. Geralt got the distinct impression he was being careful not to loom over him - not to emphasise his new monstrousness. Even rising from the makeshift bed seemed to tire him.

“How do you feel?” It was a stupid question: Geralt could see how he felt, could hear it in his stuttering pulse, smell it in the fear seeping from him.

“Bad,” Jaskier said, simply, his voice emerging from the mouth of a monster. “Just… bad.”

“I got a deer,” said Geralt, as if that might help. “We can eat some tonight, keep some for the journey…it should last us a week, maybe longer.”

Jaskier peered at him, his eyes heavily lidded. It appeared they were both thinking the same thing - that a week might be too long.

“It’s snowing,” said Geralt, far too casually, trying to skirt the subject. “Just started as I headed back.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s expression dropped. “I’ve not seen snow in… in years. I’m going to miss it.”

“It’ll be there tomorrow,” said Geralt, quietly. “And the day after, probably. Looks like a storm.”

“Geralt—”

“You’ll be fine. We’re going to get you help.”

“Geralt.”

Geralt allowed himself to be silenced.

“I don’t… Geralt, what if we don’t… what if I don’t make it till then?”

“You will. You will, we just need to wait till you turn back and we can go.”

Jaskier shook his head. “It’s like… It’s like I can feel it in me, like a shadow.” He sighed, the sound so loud Geralt could feel it vibrating. “Thank you for trying.”

The fire still roared in the grate beside them, the crackling flames accompanying Jaskier’s harried breaths in harmony. For a moment, Geralt said nothing - didn’t know what to say.

“Let’s go outside.”

“What? Geralt, I’ll—”

“You want to see the snow?”

“Yes, but—”

“You can wrap a blanket around you, pr my cloak. Jaskier, I can’t… if you’re right, and I can’t help you…” he willed his voice not to crack, “it’s the least I can do.”

He rose to his feet, and extended a hand. Jaskier paused - just for a moment - then took it, allowing Geralt to pull him to his feet. He staggered, a little, and Geralt caught him, tucked beneath his arm as he guided him to the wall where he could lean without fear of falling. He quickly dug through the pile and pulled out the largest blanket he could find, and helped Jaskier tug it over his shoulders like an oversized cape.

His strength seemed to return a little as they made their way outside, and by the time they reached the courtyard he could walk without leaning on Geralt. The snow was falling thickly now, and the stone yard was already blanketed in a soft, white carpet.

Geralt watched as Jaskier - the creature which Jaskier had become - tottered around the snow. There was something in his gait, the way he placed his feet and the way he held his arms by his side, that was so unmistakably him. Geralt felt a hot little stab of guilt - one that kept niggling at him - at how close he’d come to simply dealing with the problem like the farmer had begged him to, like his profession demanded. He was glad he hadn’t.

Jaskier unsteadily walked across the uneven ground, staring up at the thick flakes of snow falling from the sky. The moon, high and bright and pinned to the velvet sky, reflected in his huge eyes.

They were still blue. Even out here, in the dark, Geralt could see how blue they were.

He grinned - showing off rows and rows of deadly looking teeth - then opened his jaw and extended his tongue - catching snowflakes on the tip, laughing as they melted in his mouth.

Geralt smiled to himself. He remembered the first time he’d seen Jaskier do this: they’d travelled together further into winter than they usually had, and had found themselves nearly snowed in in a shitty little town nestled next to the mountains. Jaskier had said that it almost never snowed in Lettenhove, and Geralt had rolled his eyes. They were never wanting for snow at Kaer Morhen.

He’d watched as Jaskier had danced about in the fluffy flakes, giggling like a child, catching them on his tongue. He’d thought, all those years ago, what an idiot he was. But even then, there wasn’t that much malice to the thought.

And now he watched as Jaskier, transformed and irrevocably weakened - repeated that gentle, carefree action in the courtyard of the ruined castle, arms outstretched.

There was a hot little ache in Geralt’s chest, stuck between his ribs.

Gods, he thought, sudden and slow and inevitable, I love him.

In the centre of the courtyard, Jaskier slipped with a short, sharp gasp. It looked like he’d just stepped on a patch of ice, but as he tried to right himself he stumbled, a clawed hand grasping at his chest. He gasped again, his breathing short and heavy, great plumes of steam rising from his gaping mouth and mingling with the falling snow.

Jaskier collapsed, the woolen blanket falling around him, obscuring him from view. Geralt ran forwards, his own feet skidding on the icy stone floor, and Jaskier cried out - a low, terrible howl.

“Geralt!”

Geralt was there, dropping to his knees and skidding the rest of the way.

No, no no - not now, please - not now -

Jaskier moaned beneath the cloak, tugging it closer. Geralt grabbed him, placing his hands on the huge expanse of his back. Even through the thick fabric he could feel heat radiating from Jaskier’s body, and the snow began to melt in a lopsided circle around them, revealing the wet stones beneath.

“Jaskier—”

The only response was a strangled sob, a noise laced with pain. Geralt couldn’t do anything, couldn’t fix it, couldn’t help. He could only watch, listening to Jaskier moan, curling in on himself.

And then it stopped. Jaskier suddenly went still, rapidly cooling beneath Geralt’s hands.

“No, Jaskier, no—”

Geralt tugged at the blanket, pulling him upwards, trying to see him. If he could get to him, maybe he could stop this - bring him back -

There was a choke. A coughing, wheezing breath. The bundle beneath Geralt’s grabbing hands moved, shifted, rose -

Jaskier clutched the blanket around his shoulders in pale, shaking hands. He puffed out a steamy breath from between pink lips, teeth chattering. The snow stuck in his shaggy brown hair and clung to his long eyelashes.

“Jaskier…”

The bard - once a man, then a beast, now miraculously a man once more - frowned at him.

“Geralt?”

He shivered in the cold air, eyes darting around Geralt’s face. He peered down at his hands, the long fingers that dug into the wool. He made a little noise - partway between a shout and a sob - silent tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Fuck, Geralt!” He lunged forwards, and Geralt grabbed him, wrapping his arms around his shaking shoulders and pulling him towards his chest. “What did you do?” He mumbled, words muffled against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I don’t… I didn’t do anything, I was just standing here…”

Jaskier shifted in his arms to better look at him.

“You must have done something, Geralt. What were you doing? Exactly?”

Geralt could feel the blood threaten to rush to his face. He forced the emotion down, happy for the cold breeze on his cheeks.

“I…” Fuck, could he tell him? Could he tell Jaskier what he’d been thinking as he stood there, watching him in the snow?

Jaskier frowned, eyes narrowing.

“What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

Shit.

“I… I was watching you.”

“And?”

“I realised…” He swallowed, and held Jaskier tighter. “Fuck, Jask. I realised I love you.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened and shut in silence. When he finally found his voice, it came out in bursts.

“But…. I - you - Geralt, what?” He blinked, eyes huge. “You… shit, Geralt, you love me?”

“I… yes.”

“And you didn't think to tell me earlier?”

“I didn’t know! I was just… watching you, and then… I knew.”

Jaskier laughed - short and sharp - and slumped his head back against Geralt’s chest. The laughter grew, and when he pulled back, shaking his head, there were tears in his eyes.

“You fucking… a fucking love spell, Geralt? And neither of us fucking realised what it was…” he gave an exaggerated huff. “You know, other people get grand declarations beneath balconies, or heartfelt admissions in the pouring rain, or true love’s fucking kiss, and what do I get? A brief moment of silent self-reflection. Bloody hell, Geralt, but you’re so… you’re so fucking you, you great git.”

Geralt was about to respond - to perhaps apologise, or defend himself - when Jaskier surged forwards, pulling the blanket with him as he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and kissed him.

It was sudden, and unexpected, and wonderful. Jaskier kissed like he might die if he stopped, like there was nothing left in the world but them, and the way their lips danced together. Geralt clung to him, his fingers digging into his back through the fabric of the blanket, letting Jaskier pull him closer. Jaskier’s hands wound about his nape, tangled in his hair, desperate and eager like he might vanish at any moment.

When Jaskier finally pulled back his eyes were wide, lips shining.

“I love you too, of course,” he said with a little grin, “obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“I’m amazed you didn’t figure it out, really. I’ve never been exactly subtle.”

Geralt felt very stupid. “Fuck.”

“We can get to that later,” said Jaskier, pulling the fabric back around him. “I’m fucking freezing. And I’d like to point out that I’m not exactly dressed beneath this thing.”

Geralt peered down, then immediately looked back up, the flush creeping up his neck completely uncontrollable. Jaskier smirked.

“Let’s get back inside,” he said.

Jaskier pulled the blanket back around himself and together they rose, Jaskier a little unsteady, swearing as his bare feet touched the icy ground. He leant against Geralt as they headed back inside, although his strides were surer than they’d been before - his back straighter. Geralt focused his hearing, trying to pick out the sound of Jaskier’s heart beneath the violent chattering of his teeth.

It sounded strong. Not, perhaps, as strong as it once was - not as strong as it had been seven months ago - but stronger than even an hour ago, stronger than it had been when he’d found him, transformed and wild.

He was okay. He would be okay.

“Here.”

Geralt rummaged through his bag, then threw a shirt towards Jaskier - the one he’d been given by Elisa only a few days ago. Jaskier caught it easily, looking pleased, then suddenly realised what he was holding.

“Ah—”

“When I was looking for you, I spoke to a very nice woman in Oxenfurt named Elisa. She said you left this behind.”

“Fuck.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows as Jaskier flushed, still gripping the shirt, the blanket wrapped rather haphazardly around his shoulders, hardly even covering his nakedness.

“You can put it on,” he prompted, “it’s fine. I was wondering where that shirt had gone.”

Jaskier tugged the shirt over his head, messing his hair even more.

“Like hell you were, Geralt. I know what sort of care you take with your clothes. You’d never notice a missing shirt.”

“Which is why you stole one?”

“Precisely.” Jaskier smoothed out the fabric - barely long enough to cover his arse - and blushed even deeper. “I… sorry, Geralt. I just saw it hanging out of your bag before we parted for the last time in that inn and I… grabbed. Couldn’t help it.”

“Perhaps if I’d known you were wearing my clothes I’d have figured everything else out, too.”

“Wearing?” Jaskier laughed, then stalked towards Geralt and began to rifle through his bag, “I didn’t wear it, Geralt. A-hah!”

He pulled a pear of old breeches from the bag and tugged them on, Geralt deliberately looking away.

“Then… what?” He said, staring steadfastly at the crackling fire.

“Promise me you won’t freak out and leave me here.”

Geralt spun around and stared at him. “What the fuck were you doing with it?”

“Nothing weird!” Jaskier threw his hands up, “I, ah… slept with it. In my bed. Under my pillow, usually, to keep it safe.”

“Why?”

Jaskier shrugged, and the shirt slipped from one of his shoulders. “It smelt like you.”

Oh. Geralt remembered the crossroads just beyond the forest and the way he’d gripped the shirt - smelling so much of Jaskier - to his nose.

“You’re not… cross?”

“No.”

“Good,” Jaskier grinned, “that means you won’t mind swapping it out for a fresh one when we part ways.”

Geralt froze. Jaskier peered at him.

“What is it, Geralt?”

“When we part ways?”

“I mean… we always do, eventually. I just assumed…”

“Do you want to… to part ways?”

“No!” Jaskier took a quick step forward. “No, I… never, really.”

Geralt sighed, and closed the gap between them, pulling Jaskier close. Jaskier leaned into the touch, his hands sliding up Geralt’s chest.

“I left you for six months,” said Geralt, kissing Jaskier’s forehead, “and you were transformed into a beast and nearly died. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.”

“It was more like seven months, actually.”

“Jaskier.”

“Alright, alright. But… you won’t get sick of me?”

“I won’t get sick of you.”

Jaskier smiled, trapping his lip between his teeth before surging forwards, giving Geralt another quick kiss.

“I’m not sure I’ll get used to being allowed to do that,” he said, grinning.

When Geralt was completely sure that Jaskier was human - that he wasn’t about to keel over in front of him - he finally set to work at skinning and cooking the deer. Now that they didn’t need to worry about travelling by daylight or keeping hidden, it felt less important to ensure there was enough to last, and he chopped and roasted it more haphazardly than he’d been planning to.

The room was soon full of the smell of cooking venison and the sound of sizzling fat.

Even desperately hungry, his mouth covered in grease and his hands filthy, Geralt couldn’t help but stare at Jaskier. Of course he was in love with Jaskier - of course he’d been in love with him for all this time. How could he not have been?

And even when transformed, even when Jaskier had become one of the monsters he was sworn to hunt, he’d still loved him, still would have moved mountains to save him.

When he was a monster...

“Fuck, Jaskier. I’ve been so stupid.”

Jaskier was sucking at his fingers happily, completely unaware of Geralt’s revelation. “For not realising how inherently lovable I am? Don’t feel too bad, darling, you’ve time to make it up to me now.”

“No. Not that. Weeks ago, I took a contract for a werewolf… it was nasty. I had to kill him. But there was this woman, his wife... ”

“What about her?”

“I think… Jaskier, do you remember the first time you transformed? The first night? When was it, exactly?"

Jaskier frowned. “It was in the autumn. The full moon in September, it must have been.”

“Fuck.”

“Are you going to tell me your grand realisation,” said Jaskier, pulling off another chunk of meat from the roasted deer, “or are you just going to sit there and swear?”

“It was her.”

“What was her?”

“The woman. I thought she was just shouting at me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After I’d killed him, she came out with the rest. But she was screaming at me. She was distraught, I thought it was just grief. Shit. It was her all along.”

“What did she say to you?”

“She asked… she asked if I knew what it was like. To love a monster.”

Jaskier froze, his hand halfway to his mouth. “Oh."

He scooted across the floor, threading a hand around Geralt’s arm and leaning against him.

“I fucking cursed you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier squeezed his arm. “She cursed me. It’s not your fault. Anyway…” he let his fingers drift up and down Geralt’s arm, softly playing with the folds of his shirt. “You said you didn’t realise until tonight.”

“I must have known. Deep down. Just… afraid to admit it.”

“Didn’t she say anything else?”

“She demanded payment. For the ones left behind. She talked about the law of surprise, just another jab at witchers…” He sighed, running a hand through his still-damp hair. “She asked me for what I had, but that I didn't know I possessed.”

He felt Jaskier’s body shake beside him. When he looked down, he was laughing.

“What?”

“Well it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

“No!”

“You didn’t curse me, I fucking cursed myself by being such a bloody coward all these years.”

“Meaning?”

“Geralt, honestly. What do you have, but you didn’t know you had it?”

Geralt blinked at him, and Jaskier rolled his eyes, giving him a nudge.

“It’s me. If we’re being awfully poetic about it: my heart. Of course it’s yours, you foolish man. It’s always been yours.”

Geralt wasn’t sure what to say. “...Always?”

“Give or take a few years,” Jaskier shrugged, “when you were being particularly brick-headed.”

Geralt grunted at him.

“Look,” Jaskier continued, thoughtfully, “if I’d told you I was in love with you, the curse wouldn’t have done anything. You’d have already known. So don’t feel so bad, okay? I should have gotten over myself and kissed you years ago...” He nudged him again with his head, then pressed a quick kiss to his jaw. “And you uncursed me too, which I feel is more important, considering.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway,” Jaskier wiped his hands messily on his shirt - on Geralt’s shirt, “I accepted a rather long time ago that travelling with you meant I was bound to get into some sort of magical bind at some point. Seemed inevitable. Best to get it out of the way, I say.”

“But…”

“If you’re about to say something cruel about yourself, Geralt, I would recommend you keep your mouth shut. I’m sure that awful beast is still in me somewhere, don’t make me unleash it on you.”

Geralt laughed. “Hah. You couldn’t.”

“Is that so?”

Jaskier suddenly launched himself at him. Startled by the movement, Geralt toppled backwards onto one of the discarded drapes, finding himself pinned. He could have easily pushed him off, especially now he was thinner and lighter than he’d been when they last saw each other, but something stopped him.

Jaskier’s hands gripped Geralt’s wrists above his head, his knees either side of his hips, straddling him. There was a hot pit in Geralt’s chest, sinking lower. He swallowed as Jaskier looked down at him, an expression akin to greed on his face.

“Consider it unleashed.”

He leant down, pressing his lips to Geralt’s in a hot, heavy kiss. Geralt responded with equal enthusiasm, his body reacting instinctively to the touch. He pushed himself from the floor, the kiss breaking as Jaskier gasped against his lips, now perched precariously in his lap.

Geralt nuzzled into Jaskier’s neck, keen to get at the soft skin there, wondering what he’d taste like beneath his tongue.

And then he was hit with the smell.

“Fuck, Jask,” he said, pulling back. “When did you last bathe?”

Jaskier’s already pink face flushed even deeper. “Um…”

“Jaskier.”

“I’ll have you know there’s a stream nearby here that I definitely had a, ah, quick dip in…”

“When was that?”

Jaskier looked terribly ashamed. “A couple weeks ago.”

“Melitlte’s tits.”

“I’ve been cursed, I’ll have you know! It’s not like I had access to running water.”

“Right.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

“And you don’t have witcher senses. I may love you…” Jaskier grinned at that, and Geralt’s stomach did a little flip, “but I refuse to do anything more than kiss you until you’ve had a bath.”

“Fine, fine!” Jaskier removed himself from Geralt’s lap with a little huff. “Where, oh master witcher, the finest smelling man in all the land, might we find a bath suitable for your standards?”

“There’s an inn in the village that sent me here,” mused Geralt, “but it’s small. Probably too small for a bath. Or we can head back to Oxenfurt.”

“How far away are they?”

“The village… it took me a day to get through the forest. Oxenfurt will probably be two, if we’re travelling together.”

“The village it is, then,” said Jaskier, eyes shining. “We may as well try there first, hmm?”

Geralt grinned. “We may as well.”

#witcher secret santa #the wicher #dont-touch-the-phlebotinum #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #my fic #secret santa gift #in which geralt finally figures it out #and jaskier has a small problem

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m-aster-of-spinjitzu · 3 years

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Akita and Zane talk after the battle in 'Awakenings'. The conversation... doesn't go as either of them expect.

Prompt: memories, from @ninjago-bingo‘s warm board:D

Trigger warnings: implied self harm (one or two characters dig their fingernails into their hands), discussion and introspection about most of the crimes the 'Emperor' committed, a lot of talk and introspection about murder.

Word count: 4682 (I've literally been writing this for like a month lol, kinda disappointed it ended up fairly short:/)

"We have to talk."

The girl with red markings on her face - Akita, he heard Lloyd call her - unsheathes her short dagger, eyes narrowed to slits.

He glances around the throne room, hands pressed to his head. The memories were still trickling through; strange islands and a forest of snow, a dungeon and... a noodle factory?

"Alright," he says quietly. She bears the same red marks of the bear he can remember Vex convincing him was a criminal, many winters ago. That could only mean-

It wasn't you, he reminds himself. It was the scroll, and the actions of a power hungry traitor.

You gave the order, his now infallible memory supplies, and, honestly, he has no rebuttal for that.

"Alright," he echoes meekly, trying to muster some emotion into his voice. "I know-"

"No," she cuts him off roughly, her eyes scanning the room. It is just the two of them now - the samurai had fled once they had recovered from the strange trance he had put them in. Vex had been locked in the dungeon by Lloyd, who was helping any of the samurai who could not quite remember their old lives.

He had ruled for sixty years. Some of their families might dead, some by their own hands.

They know this. He knows this.

Irrationally, he wishes there was some way to fix this. A spell, or a way to turn back the clock; some way to yell at a younger Zane to just scout the cave-

There is no way backward; only forward, out of this winter - and, possibly, into another one.

He stares at the girl in front of him, taking in her tattered clothing, the ease with which she holds her weapon. She's not afraid to fight.

"I don't owe you an explanation, Emperor," Akita says definitely, forcing out the words. "But you will give me one, or you shall never see the light of day again. My brother-"

His heart lurches, eyes widening. Brother.

"Knows that the dungeon has many empty cells," she finishes sharply, barely contained anger flashing in her eyes.

He keeps the facts brief, concise. Once this is all over, he can dwell on them - agonize over what he should have done; use it to be better next time. Atone for his mistakes, even if he can never truly make up for them.

"A snake capable of sorcery used a magic scepter to blast me and a vehicle to this realm. I was sent here sixty years into the past, which is why it took my friends so long to find me. I was also holding a similar magic scepter - one which amplifies the holder's power, but if held for too long, it corrupts one's mind."

"I know what happens next."

How-

"I watched your message to your friends," she replies curtly, by way of explanation. "I did not know that you and the Emperor were one and the same. Continue."

"Vex interrupted a process I was using to try and fix a- vehicle, which caused me to lose my memories. He told me that I was ill. He said that he was a great friend of mine, and that this realm belonged to me. He convinced me that Formlings were warmongers, and that the rightful king had overthrown me. Just before he almost killed Lloyd, he said something that caused my memories to return."

She frowns. "I do not understand. How does one lose their memories so easily?"

Akita stares at his metal skin, her eyes widening as if noticing it for the first time.

"I am not quite like you-"

"I know," she interjects, eyes brimming with anger. "I am not a murderer."

"I was... created," he replies, quietly. "Out of extra materials. I can act like others, but I do not always understand emotions in the same way."

Akita frowns again, raising her dagger. Her voice grows a dangerous edge; sharp and cold. "You never realized that your actions were wrong?"

They're entering dangerous territory. Some part of him wants to derail the conversation; stick to the facts and leave his emotions out of this.

But he owes her an explanation - he owes everyone an explanation. He owes them so much more, if only he could give it to them; erase the past and leave their quiet realm in peace.

"Before I came here, I would never have done such things - if I had my memories, I would never have done such things. Vex convinced me that they were the only way I could defend my throne. I did not know that they were wrong. The moment I realized what I had done, I tried to help your side. The right side," he finishes, ignoring the temptation to stare down at the floor instead of into her blazing eyes.

An indecipherable expression crosses her face. "You never talked to another? One of your... army, perhaps?" "Vex gave all the orders. He just asked me for approval. I never left this room." "And you approved them," she muttered, but it seemed to serve more as a reminder to herself than it did to him.

"What was your life like, before you entered our world?" Akita asks suddenly, suspicion still coating her voice. He blinks, the question unexpected.

"My friends and I can control and create different elements," he began, hesitantly. Carefully. "We were taught to fight. We protect our city from those-" "You were built to protect those who cannot protect themselves."

"Those who cannot protect themselves," Zane finishes, guilt making his vision hazy.

He quickly blinks away the tears, all too aware of her persistent gaze.

"Two more questions," she says quickly, glancing behind her. "This room makes me uncomfortable. And so do you." The accusation is clear, but her eyes are not quite as cold as they had been earlier.

"What do you feel now?" Akita asks roughly, taking a step back. "You mentioned earlier that you do not feel emotions the same way that we do. Explain."

I could lie, he thinks, fleetingly. What if my feelings convince her that I am the Emperor even more than I am Zane? A voice at the back of his mind points out that he is - was - the Emperor.

He knows this.

He knows that he will have to acknowledge it once they are back home.

He knows that he cannot dwell on it now, or the winter will go on - inside his mind instead of outside it.

"I feel... guilt," he begins. "For the terrible crimes I have committed. Horror, at my own actions. Anger, towards that traitor. Relief - that I am no longer under his influence." An eyebrow touches her forehead, ever so slightly.

"How guilty?" It is almost a challenge, her voice rising in pitch threateningly.

"I will spend the rest of my life working to atone for my mistakes," Zane answers sincerely, resisting the irrational urge to squeeze his eyes shut. "However, I know that nothing I can do will ever undo them. But I can help others from people who- who... seek to manipulate them," he finishes quietly, a remorseful sigh punctuating the confession.

Akita says nothing; lips pressed in a hard line. Her blank, steadfast gaze meets his. The dagger clatters to the ground.

He draws in a breath sharply.

Picking it up, she squares her shoulders defiantly. "My people will know that... that there were two prisoners within these walls," she sighs, the weariness in her voice all too evident.

Yet he does not miss her glare; a barely contained anger that lurks just beneath the surface.

Akita straightens her spine, frowning menacingly as her hand tightens on the dagger.

He resists the irrational urge to take a step back.

"My brother and I will never forgive you," she snarls.

You do not have to, he would like to say. But he suspects that she already knows this.

"Come near either of us again, and I will make you long for death."

She shifts to her wolf form, baring her teeth - but when she stalks closer, he does not back away.

Suddenly, he is all-too-aware of the fact that the throne room is currently empty - bar the two of them.

He does not move.

It is not as if she could harm him - titanium is not easily damaged (yet, some part of him wonders if that is a blessing or curse), but they have faced enough villains for him to know how it works.

The villains die at the end; rightfully so.

Why should this be any different?

"You will pay for your crimes," Akita growls, shifting between her forms as if it is second nature. It probably is. "Emperor."

Her dagger clatters to the ground once again.

He does not move.

Why should this be any different?

---

"What's taking her so long?"

"Who?" The Samurai asks, the confusion on his face only amplifying.

"No- nothing," he mumbles, wincing. The adrenaline is wearing off - and with it, the fleeting distraction from the pain coursing through his chest.

Broken ribs? Probably. But he's got bigger problems to worry about - his minor injuries don't really matter when there's a warrior (because after all that she's been through, he thinks that she deserves the title - even if it's one she would never have wanted) seeking vengeance, someone who could tear apart this castle, brick by brick if she wanted to, alone with his brother.

His brother - who'd taken hers; encased her village in a tomb of ice, leaving behind no one but a teenager consumed with blinding anger - rightfully so, he admits, a bit wearily.

What happened to you, Zane?

Are you even... there? The person who used to stay awake with me when all I saw was the building crumbling before my eyes, night after night? The one who swore to protect those who couldn't protect themselves?

Are you still there?

"Can I, er, go inside?" he asks no one, trying not to breathe too hard. The Ice Samurai he'd been trying to help had vanished, most probably to try and get answers from someone else.

He owes it to these people to help them - if he'd just been faster, stronger, better, Aspheera could never have-

Not now, Lloyd!

He should probably open the doors - try and diffuse whatever fight they'd gotten into. Akita reminds him of Kai; both of them fiercely protective of those whom they care about, yet sometimes clouded by rage so thick they can barely see out of it.

But he's hesitating - there's always the possibility that her anger; prison of its own, might extend to him.

Not that he even has the right to condemn her for it, though.

Unwillingly, a fleeting thought presses itself to the forefront of his mind; beautiful white hair, a soft voice coated in honey-

Broken ribs, he reminds himself stubbornly, grimacing at the flare of pain as he draws in a breath sharply. She's gone, she's gone, and it's-

He bites his lip until the tang of iron fills his mouth, eyes fixed determinedly on the floor.

Not now, Lloyd!

Slowly, carefully, he pushes the door open. It creaks softly - but he doesn't think anyone hears it.

Oh, no.

---

"Akita?" a voice questions, hesitantly. He's half-leaning against the door, blonde hair almost completely hiding wary eyes all but squeezed shut in pain.

She stiffens, ignoring the part of her that learns to hunt, murder, the- the monster-

Blinking, quickly, she allows her mind to embrace the sharp, cold air on her fur, and her harsh, ragged breathing - until she can almost feel the shift in her heart, trading instinct for a different type of clarity, white fur for skin and hair.

Grabbing her dagger, she halfheartedly swipes it at the boy who makes her cheeks redder than they usually are, the boy who travelled across the ice seeking a murderer-

Well. He is in no condition to help anyone - they both know this.

But he does not have the right to interfere with this conversation - her feelings do not matter when his friend is-

"Leave us," she snarls, fingers digging into the hilt of her dagger. "What makes you think you have the right?"

Her voice grows colder, but she can't quite keep the tremor out of it.

"You did not find your village half-dead, or spend months mourning your brother," Akita snaps, frustration seeping into the words. Why does he always have to make everything so complicated?

"I know," he replies, hesitantly, eyes flitting between the room and the door. "But... this isn't the right thing to do, Akita."

"Do you think it was right for your friend to seize power from our rightful ruler? Do you think he was right when he imprisoned an innocent child for so many years?"

She doesn't bother to keep the venom out of her voice, ignoring the fact that the light brown of her skin has almost faded to white where she grips her weapon.

Taking a step closer, she bites her lip.

If he will make this his fight, so will she.

"The girl I told you about," Lloyd interjects. "H- Harumi." He forces out the name, as if the very mention of it ails him.

She raises her eyebrows. "What are you going to do? Distract me with stories about your girlfriend while he," Akita glares at the Emperor with a sigh, "escapes?"

"No," he replies softly. Brushing the hair out of his eyes, she doesn't miss his poorly concealed wince.

This is the friend he seeks?

There's a fragile silence, one of which she refuses to shatter. Nothing he can say will erase the horrific actions of this- this power-hungry ruler who has abused the gift he has been given; persecuted their lands, and forced innocents into lives ruled by fear and hatred.

"I- er-" Lloyd starts, visibly uncomfortable with saying... whatever it is he is trying to say.

She does not interrupt, but does not take her eyes off the Emperor, either. He has not moved or even contributed to their exchange yet.

Good, she thinks fervently. She does not need to force herself to try and feel sympathy for a man she has hated for so many long winters, one who has taken a piece of her heart and locked it away in a tiny prison cell.

"Did I ever tell you that- that... I watched her die?" he asks, aiming for a casual tone.

The hurt subconsciously laced into it makes something in her heart twist, as if it had been pierced by a shard of glass.

Outwardly, she does nothing more than raise an eyebrow.

For all the days they have spent trekking across the ice together, it suddenly dawns on her how little she actually knows about him.

"No," she replies carefully, dragging out the word. "Why?" "She-"

Akita can almost see his internal struggle - anger and fear and indecision and something she can't quite place her finger on meshing into another thing entirely.

"She- tried to murder," Lloyd flinches at the word, nails digging into his palms, "my friends. And I was forced to watch, helpless," he whispers, so softly that she has to strain to hear it.

"But when she- she died in a crumbling building, I- was... the one who caused it to fall."

"Your point?" she snaps; voice as sharp as her blade. He is the only thing standing between her and the Emperor; between the growing hatred she had allowed to fester for all this time, because one day she would finally make him pay-

Her friend visibly winces.

Too late does she realize her mistake, a fact that leaves her a bit sick to the stomach.

That's nothing compared to the bout of nausea that accompanies another realization, juts a second later.

How could I let my anger hurt another - one who did not deserve to receive it? Am I truly any better than the one whom I have condemned?

Well. The logical side of her mind points out that it is her choice to forgive, for such unforgivable acts; that the anger that had doused everything in its hue, every day, was to be expected-

"I apologize... for my conduct," she says quickly, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "You have never hurt me. I did not mean to hurt you." "It's okay- this- this isn't my fight anyway," Lloyd replies quickly, fingers wrapped around the door handle - but she doesn't even think he's aware of the fact. "I just- I just wanted to share something with you, something I wish someone would've shared with me, because-" He's rambling, words practically coated in a jumble of shaky nerves. "What is it?" Akita asks softly, losing a little of the stiffness in her tone.

"Murder- it isn't right," he repeats, hands pressed to his forehead. "But... it'll hurt you more than it will anyone else. I can't go a week without seeing her fall in my dreams, over and over again. I should've been glad, I guess... she'd hurt my friends and I so many times. But- but I'm the one with the nightmares, and all this- guilt. And I care- I care you, Akita. I know that I'll never understand how you've been hurt by- by the Emperor... just, think about how it'll affect you." Akita's eyes widen incredulously, but he's not done. "Just- don't let someone else make you hurt yourself." His voice is about a pitch higher than normal, but neither of them really register it. "Sometimes, the best kind of revenge is refusing..." Lloyd trails off, his eyes squeezed shut (a second later, he opens them again, blinking profusely), "to let anyone... make you hurt them."

Irrationally, she wants to break something.

That advice offers... an entirely new perspective. One that she had never thought of.

One that is- is unwanted, she insists fervently.

And now his fingers are pressing into his hands again, so tightly that she almost wants to yell - stop it, idiot, you're hurting yourself! - at him. "Because... it might haunt you lot more. And if they- they- really want to hurt you?" Both of them ignore the erratic, painful looking way his breathing starts to hitch just then.

"Don't give them... the satisfaction of it - by- your own hands."

Her mouth drops open.

No words come out.

What?

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Lloyd slowly - a bit too carefully - push the door shut behind him. It creaks softly, but neither of the two left standing in the room really hear it.

She squeezes her eyes shut, far too many emotions almost crashing through her mind.

"You seek to rescue your friend. I seek revenge."

Blinking the world back into focus, her mind whirls and whirls; the storm unrelenting.

"I seek revenge."

What exactly did that mean to her?

She...

She did not quite know the answer now.

---

Akita does not speak for some time, her thoughtful expression plainly clashing with one of anger.

He does not speak, either, although it is for a different reason.

Lloyd's words have forced him to face the reality he has been avoiding ever since he smashed his scepter on the ground - ever since the decade-long winter had ended.

"And if they really want to hurt you? Don't give them the satisfaction of it - by your own hands."

"If they really want to hurt you."

There is only one whom Lloyd could have been referring to.

"You were built to protect those who cannot protect themselves."

Somewhere within his mind, he is aware of the fact that the second his memories returned, the staff lay in pieces on the floor; all of that corrupted ice shattering into nothing.

He is also aware of the fact that sixty years of tyranny will leave behind much more than an altered climate.

If they even get back to Ninjago, what will have become of his city? It took his friends decades to find him - what could have happened during all that time?

Friends. Does he even have a right to call them that?

He is not quite sure - or even sure if all of them will be as forgiving as Lloyd.

The Green Ninja had always strived to find the best in people - to believe that anyone could make up for their mistakes, that they would want to. It had been to his friend's detriment, once - yet Lloyd had never quite given up on the world, in the same way that many of them had. Maybe it was some sort of childish naivety - or maybe it was just in his nature to hope, even after all they had been through, that everyone had some good inside them.

Yet, he had never met anyone who shared his friend's mindset - or at least to that extent.

Kai knows what it is like to have a sibling kidnapped, taken from them for no rhyme or reason - other than the fact that a cruel ruler who seeks power and exploits those around them for it will stop at nothing to get what they want.

Cole knows what it is like to die (well, almost, his logic points out) - to be imprisoned within yourself; a husk of a person, unable to live your life to the fullest.

His mind flashes to the thousands of innocent villagers he had frozen in icy prisons, practically caskets-

Irrationally, his hands begin to shake.

He chooses not to focus on that.

Nya used to hunt down those who hurt others, he recalls - and then squeezes his eyes shut.

Is she not quite similar to Akita in that regard?

The realization leaves him more gutted than he thought was possible. Had he really become the very person his friends worked so hard to stop?

He clenches his fists, the titanium covering his fingers grating together.

At least I am no longer holding the scroll, he thinks, fervently. Before long, the memory of a clear, quiet night pulls itself to the forefront of his mind.

The echo of a whispered confession; a brief explanation mixed with tears and shaking hands. A voice usually so bright, silenced to the shaky murmur of "I watched her die, Zane, and it was all my fault, it's all my fault-"

It was then when he had learned of- of an alternate timeline, his processor had inputted seamlessly. Another reality, wiped from their minds and the press of time. One that only existed in the memories of two of his best friends.

One that resulted in poorly concealed winces, seemingly arbitrary flinches, Nya throwing out any dresses she owned and Jay practically shaking with fear when he was asked to do certain chores. One that resulted in scars that ran far deeper than those of venom or sword. His memories had been useless then, too, his mind points out. How could he have let two of his best friends suffer for weeks on end, when he was able to upgrade or encrypt his memory drive at any time? When he was a n- robot, and should be able to recover memories that had been deleted or erased? The others could never be afforded that opportunity - yet, he had let the team down when it mattered most. If he could not be there for others, try to help them protect them from a force unable to ever be completely defeated, would he ever even halfway fulfill his purpose? He had pondered all of those questions - had ignored the pang in his heart when many pieces of the figurative puzzle clicked into place, for many weeks afterward. He had almost immediately vowed to be better - to ensure that his purpose did not go unfulfilled.

His purpose, he thought bitterly, as he squeezed his eyes shut. What had become of it now?

Another question to ponder, he supposed. And the realization that Jay - one of his brothers, one who was always equipped with a weapon and a joke too - would forever know what it was like to be kidnapped, held hostage, simply because a power-hungry figure cared less for another than anyone ever should.

Akita's brother had been scarcely less than a child - after his imprisonment. How could he have strayed so far from his original goals - how could he have strayed so far from what he had supposedly fervently stood for?

---

Lloyd's words still ring in her ears, his weary tone not quite matching their crazy implications.

She rubs her temples, frustrated. This was definitely not what she had come here for! She had come for vengeance - vengeance for the terrible crimes the Ice Emperor had committed, against her village, her brother, even her-

But what was the point of revenge if she was the one left scarred? a small voice in the back of her mind points out, doing nothing but adding to her indecision.

I cannot do this, she insists fervently, thinking of her brother's worn face - and the years he had spent imprisoned; a lone figure silently mourning a sister he did not know still trekked the ice.

Just as she had been mourning him, she thinks sadly. The pang in her heart may have lessened since she had realized that he was still alive, but it was still horrifying to think that he had lost decades of his life - she had lost decades of hers, too, in a different way, she muses - saddened, alone, imprisoned.

But is this what he would have wanted? For her?

He had always been the calmer, logic-based one. She was always running into fights, the one fueled by emotion and anger.

Well. She spares a moment for the future.

The Emperor would leave their world - possibly, to haunt another. She would remain here - with her brother and her village, the woods and the towering peaks of the mountains.

I only have this one chance, she reminds herself firmly. She fixes her eyes on the strange blue ones of the Emperor, and sees a future ruled by that one decision.

Her gaze flits towards the doorway, and she sees a future there, too.

She sighs, dropping her eyes to the ground.

But Katuru would want me to- to-

Be happy, she realizes, jarringly.

Taking a deep breath, she bites her lip.

"Will taking your life make me happy? Will it make up for the years of pain we have endured at your hands?"

Her voice rings out, hesitant yet determined.

"I wish it were so," she confesses wearily, ignoring the ache in her hands. She's been gripping the hilt of her dagger for so long, the blade's almost pierced her skin. "Alas, it is not."

The Emperor meets her gaze, but not completely - out of guilt? Fear? Anger?

She does not have the time to ponder meaningless questions.

"I despise you with every fiber of my being, you coward," Akita snarls, some of the anger she has become so accustomed to bleeding its way into her words. "But I will not tarnish my hands on someone as worthless as you, when you presently pose no threat to me."

The words spill from her mouth, but she almost wants to stuff them back inside at that very second.

This isn't why I came here! This isn't what I was supposed to do-

Another voice cuts through the one in her head, a weary confession from someone she knew nothing and everything about.

"Don't give them the satisfaction of it - by your own hands.

The next words she utter fill the room - steady, unwavering.

"Leave our world, and never return. Never. You have treated my people as if you are a monster, yet you say that you are sorry. As if you could ever care - after everything you have done to us!"

Akita sheathes her dagger, indecision still weighing heavily on her mind.

"I hope that you are as haunted by your time here as we all are," she spits, walking towards the door. She does not look behind her, but packs as much bitterness as she can into the last word she utters before the door closes behind her.

"Emperor."

---

A/N - I know this wasn't great, but honestly, it was really interesting to write and challenged me to think about certain things quite a bit. If you did read it, thank you so much!:D

#the ice chapter #ninbingo #ninjago zane #ninjago lloyd #ninjago akita #ns11 #zane julien #lloyd garmadon #ninjago fanfiction

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duskwood-legacies · 3 years

Text

"Your Armageddon"

•Fandom: Duskwood

⚠️->Episodes 5-8 Spoiler!

•Pairing/Character: MC, MWAF (Micheal)

•Word Count: 1.1k

•Genre: Angst

•Trigger Warnings: brief mention of blood and self-hatred, mentions of death

•Summary: MC stands face to face with the place responsible for the legend that calls itself the avenger of sins. Turns out, she was just the final pawn in the MWAF’s wicked game.

-----

Fog strangled the forests of Duskwood in a thick grey, forbidding to let anyone gaze farther than their arms could reach. Wind forced branches to collide, wind that soon swirled into a cruel storm to leave nothing but heartless destruction in its path.

As the world seemed to be taken away by Armageddon, I stood with my feet like rooted to the ground. The raven carved into the wood was almost shielded from my vision. Almost.

“Our origin. It lies here.” A raspy, sand-paper like voice taunted my mind from behind. The unnerving sound chased the hairs on my arms and neck upwards, nausea creeping into my throat.

“Is that why you brought me here, Micheal?” My own heartbeat nearly deafened me.

“Do not call me by my name.”

I shivered as I captured the calm tone inside his words. People possessing such calmness within such madness. They were dangerous. By far beyond dangerous. Rain crashed down like cascades, perfecting the chaos menacing around us, flooding homes of animals and drowning out hopes.

“We are one.” Micheal spoke.

“We…?”

“We. Every Man Without A Face before me, every Man Without A Face to follow after me. We share the same memories of your sins, we share the same curse.” Micheal’s voice darkened with each word spoken.

“But— But this is just a legend-“

“Naive girl.” His calmness began to fade away into the depths of hatred. “We are bound to this universe. We are the avengers for your sins. We are the justice. We are the misunderstood!”

I winced at the sudden loudening of his words. My veins pulsated with hot blood run cold, thoughts going numb with each passing dulled second. My airways tightened with an invisible rope swung around my neck.

“Ask MC.” Micheal’s voice bore into me “Ask. Ask! Ask what’s been haunting you!”

“Why?!” I shouted “Why Hannah?! Why Richy?! Why YOU?!”

I couldn’t see him, but I knew, I felt it. The sickening grin of success, securely hidden under his mask burned on my back, ill sensations diving into my spine.

“Jennifer!” Micheal pressed out, pained inside his neglected soul, relieved to say her name again. “Her death brought this curse upon me! Hannah and Richy watched her life cease from this world! They left her to die, allowed her murderer to run free!”

“They were only kids!” My shout matched a screech.

“Death knows no age!” A tree crashed into the ground behind us. The ominous loud thump hunted ravens out of their shelter, towards the one and only person their loyalty belongs to. My arms flung up and crossed in front of my head to protect my face. Micheal’s furious voice kept burning its way into my brain.

“Her death tore my life apart! Her death allowed the curse to seep into my cracked soul!”

“How is that possible?” I tried to mask my fright with half-hearted compassion.

“You don’t understand?! We were emotionally bound the strongest to those who fell victim to the cruelest of sins! We avenge our loved ones and protect those who can’t protect themselves!”

“By robbing lives?! You are committing sins yourself!”

“That is why we are the victims of our successors. This curse is Duskwood’s hell circle.”

Tears edged my eyes. Memories I couldn’t repress longer found their way back to torture my consciousness. The storm howled louder as the trees whipped into all directions with immeasurable violence. My knees started to feel light under the hectic of the unforgiving insanity those gone-by moments brought back to me.

“Do you feel the sting? The burn? The pain under your skin?” Micheal’s voice mixed psychopathy and lunacy as well as calmness and peace. With a weak spark of agitated success. “Do you hear their voices? Do you see their faces pleading you for help? Do you run from the guilt your sins have brought you? Do you see what monster you encouraged me to become?”

Thunder boomed through the fighting trees. I cried out in despair, broke under the suspense and agony he put me under as I bailed down onto my knees. My hands covered my ears, praying I’d somehow be able to shut his voice out before they reach my brain.

The sweet feelings of his achievement soothed Micheal’s wrath. His mind cleared as he saw his goal unfold in front of him like a dahlia in July.

The sound of branches breaking mixed with the loudness of rain, storm and thunder, becoming clearer and clearer the more Micheal stalked closer to me. I clutched my hands around my ears, with an intensity strong enough to make me hurt myself.

Micheal crouched down behind me. One of his hands grabbed my wrist and moved it away from my ear, easily fighting against the resistance I had attempted put up.

“Answer me, MC.”

I did. Day by day I ran from myself, hated when I saw my reflection, punched a mirror to shatters and watched my knuckles bleed until I could walk again. Every day the images of Richy would restrain my mind with shackles, guilt and helplessness charging and tackling me down the second the image unlocked their door.

“Crying. The silence of the sinners.” Micheal hummed. I didn’t notice I started sobbing.

“You mentioned Hannah and Richy… why me… why are you after me?”

“You have helped murderers. You willingly put people in danger for your own goals. You are powerfully bound to someone who has Duskwood’s blood inside their veins. You are the perfect victim. You are the final sin to separate me from my curse.”

My head pounded with distress. I pleaded for everything to be a nightmare, for the cold of the rain on my skin to be imagined, for the thunder in the sky to be a loud neighbor cutting into my dreams, for the storm to be a mask of my guilt.

The sentences resonated in my mind, bouncing and leaving a dull ache everywhere they touched my being. My parents weren’t from Duskwood. Neither of them had connections to the forgotten village within the lost forest.

My eyes went wide and a sudden inhale filled my lungs as realization came to me.

Jake.

Micheal yanked my head upward by my hair. A thunderbolt struck the tree in half, the spot scared with the raven splitting into two. Merciless heat of fire graced against my freezing skin, a high-pitched ringing consuming my ears. A cold metal blade pressed against my throat as I felt Micheal get closer to my ear one last time.

“This is your Armageddon, MC.”

-----

A/N: Hi!💕 This post was rather unplanned since I didn't want to post too much Angst, but I've had this idea for a while now and reading the story of @neptunee has given me so much motivation, I couldn't resist🤭🌿 I hope the stories don't share too much similarities, I promise if anything appears copied I didn't do it on full on purpose!

#duskwood fanfiction #duskwood #duskwood everbyte #duskwood mc #duskwood player #duskwood mwaf #duskwood mc x mwaf #everbyte studio

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yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

Text

for anyone curious, my newest book is about the Salem Witch Trials! it’s at the point of view of Mary Warren and how she went through trials, ultimately ending in her downward spiral into madness as the trials deteriorate her mental health. it’s called Servant of Evil.

here’s the first segment of the first chapter!

— — —

She was gathering crops the first day she caught wind of the hysteria.

It was late January and sunny, the last warm day in what would soon feel like forever. The sickle in her hand was wickedly sharp and gleaming in pale yellow light, and the stalks of the corn she was cutting away were rough and sharp beneath calloused fingers. Already, the skin on her hands was shredded, oozing ruby droplets of blood and staining bright green stems. Her legs ached from crouching in the dirt, muscles locked up and tense. Somewhere beyond the pillars of corn stretched out before her, she could hear her master’s children talking in high-pitched voices, dogs barking, and horses neighing. Even closer than that, however, she could hear heavy footsteps tramping through the field, and she knew the owner of this land would not enjoy such galumphing through his crops. But she also knew that the one who appeared through the stalks wouldn’t care much for the fiery point of John Proctor’s scorn.

“Something weirdish is going on in Salem.”

Without looking up, Mary Warren answered the unexpected visitor, “Something is always going on in Salem.”

That much was true, at least right now. Salem was a town of rich trade and sea salt, characterized by a sparkling harbor that was bested only by Boston’s and a habit of fighting with itself. For years, Salem had been split between two forces: the nobles up in Salem Town and the farmers down in Salem Village. The two territories were never not fighting with each other; they were always mad about something the other did, and it was easy to lose track of who hated who and for what reason. Salem Village didn’t like the control Salem Town held over it, while Salem Town was annoyed by Salem Village thinking it was its own settlement, but they all detested the British church, which was mutual. Salem Town often pulled men from Salem Village to be a part of the national guard, which made Salem Village nervous because then they would have nobody to protect them, and Indian attacks were a regular fear throughout the civilization. Aside from its harbor, the other thing Salem had to owe to its popularity was its unfortunate position in front of frequent ambushes. And if it didn’t suffer ambushes first-hand, then it suffered ambushes through the survivors of such raids, many of which populated the city and would soon help with the grisly events that turned the community over on its head.

But the only other thing Salem Village and Salem Town could agree on was that the Indians were an issue. Unfortunately, that was where agreements ended and arguments began- Salem Town wanted more men to train, promising protection; Salem Village refusing, saying they knew how Salem Town lied, and if they didn’t, then they only saved them because of their bountiful trade and not because they were their people. It wouldn’t be long until the yelling broke out, testaments from the Bible were quoted, and grown men argued like two children fighting over who was their parents’ favorite kid.

However, Salem as a whole had fallen silent recently. Things were peaceful. It was as though a grace period were opening up before them all--or, perhaps, it was actually ending.

Except for right now, in the Proctor corn field, of course. Because her visitor would only bring silence if she were dead, and she had proved to be too slippery for death’s fingers three times over after surviving several Indian attacks throughout her young life.

“This is different.”

Wiping a sagging green sleeve over her damp brow, Mary looked up and squinted through sweat and sun to look at none other than the Putnam’s maid, Mercy Lewis.

Mercy was a fine example of everything the Puritans didn’t want. Despite her name’s sake, she was stubborn, brash, and spitfire, though she was smart enough to never act in such a way in front of the church. And she was, indeed, smart. She was more clever than a fox, easily outwitting several situations despite the minimal education women had in their lifetime. The only thing she was merciful to was her younger cousin, Ann Putnam Jr. Her parents were better off naming her Big, Loud, and Vulgar.

Mercy was nineteen-years-old, two years older than Mary, and built like a small bear. She was short, compact, and sinewy, her muscles and joints well-honed from rough maid work. Her temper was black and her teeth were sharp. Her curly dark brown hair was tucked up in her blindingly white bonnet, and she was dressed in a nondescript dress of purple. Storm cloud grey eyes bore down on Mary with bright amusement.

The two of them met three years ago in Elizabeth Proctor’s tavern. Mary had been struggling to wipe away a sticky stain on one of the tables; Mercy was looking for fresh meat. They both were in the right place at the right time.

Mary hadn’t heard her come in. It was as though the shadows of the tavern itself had unfolded the sixteen-year-old before her because she was suddenly there, towering over the front of the table, and Mary ended up spilling the bowl of soapy water she was using all over herself upon noticing her.

“My, are you jumpy,” the strange girl had observed, peering over the edge of the table. She didn’t offer Mary her help or even an apology. Mary didn’t ask for one. “Were your parents murdered by savages, too?”

“What?”

“Ooo, no, then. Got it.”

Mary blinked up at her for a moment, then carefully got up out of the sudsy puddle and retrieved a dry rag to clean up the newest mess. The entire time, the strange girl watched her as she dripped droplets and beads of white soap from the bottom of her old lavender dress.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked as she got back down on her hands and knees to clean the floor.

“Oh, no,” the strange girl answered. “I just came to say hello. Introduce myself. You work for the Proctor’s, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mary nodded.

“Interesting, interesting. I work for the Putnam’s. Thomas is my cousin, actually.”

Mary nodded again. She looked back down at the puddle, trying to focus on that. The girl didn’t move.

“Mercy.”

Mary looked back up again. She blinked. The strange girl blinked back. Was this a game?

“Pity.”

The girl stared at her for a moment, then burst into loud laughter that seemed to shake the walls. Mary was startled; she had never heard anyone laugh so hard in her entire life. Especially in a town as strict as Sakem.

“No, that’s my name,” the girl said after calming down. “My name is Mercy. Mercy Lewis.”

“Oh,” Mary’s ears heated up. “Right. Your parents were feeling pretty creative, weren’t they?”

Another bout of laughter. “Yes. Yes, they were.” She squinted at her. “And you are?”

“Mary. Mary Warren.”

“Well, Mary ‘Pity’ Warren, I think we are going to be very good friends.”

And she was right.

Mercy, as menacing as she could be, made life in Salem a lot more bearable, especially when Proctor’s whip frequently began lapping at Mary’s bare back. Together, they formed a cohort of sorts, sneaking away into the woods with other village girls, hiding away from the Lord’s watchful eyes to discuss the most sinful of things.

And today, Mercy wanted to carry on with their long-running traditions.

“Different in what way?” Mary asked.

Mercy rolled her eyes. She kicked a cloud of dust at Mary, and Mary sputtered, nearly falling backwards into the corn.

“Different-different,” Mercy answered. “Something is wrong with Abigail. Betty, too, I hear. We’re gonna go up to the Reverend’s house and see them. They’re ill, you know?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “Mister Proctor didn’t tell me anything. They’re sick?”

“Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. The Reverend has been throwin’ a huge fit over them.” Mercy explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!” Then, doing a horrible imitation of Reverend Samuel Parris’s voice, she wailed, “Oh Betty, Betty! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

She clung to Mary’s arm dramatically. “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girls with?!”

Mary couldn’t help but giggle softly. Still, her mind was made up on the whole ordeal.

“Tell them my pardons and prayers,” she said, grabbing the fallen sickle. “My master said I gotta tend to the crops. Then I can go to town. But I am not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

Mercy groaned loudly and snatched the sickle away from Mary, making her yelp.

“Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Abby and Betty!” Mercy urged. “To Hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Mary stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in. She stood up- Mercy was taller than her, as she always had been. “Lead on, Mercy.”

Mercy brightened.

Together, the two of them snuck out of the Proctor property, careful as to not get caught by one of the many children roaming the plantation.

Technically, the Proctor’s had eighteen children, though four were dead and eleven were brought forth by two different women, both of which had also passed over the seasons. The only living child of John Proctor’s first wife, Martha Giddens, was Benjamin, a tall, lanky man who could never seem to grow a beard, yet had hair down to his shoulders. He was thirty-three and didn’t talk to Mary very often, but when he did, he greatly critiqued her work in the field. That farm was his pride and joy, and it was a challenge to not roll her eyes when he would go on about the importance of their crops and proper plant care.

Elizabeth II was the second oldest at twenty-nine, and helped Elizabeth Proctor run the tavern with her other siblings: Martha IV, twenty-six (the first two Martha’s had died when they were both infants, along with the woman they were named after); Mary II, twenty-five; John II, twenty-four; Mary III, twenty-three; and Thorndike, twenty. Why Proctor decided to have TWO daughters named Mary was beyond Mary herself, but it wasn’t uncommon for things to become confusing when their name was shouted for whatever reason.

Elizabeth Proctor’s children stayed on the farm, helping clean and take care of the livestock: William, eighteen; Sarah fifteen; Samuel, seven; Elisha, five; Abigail, three; and Joseph, one. Mercy often made jokes that Elizabeth had obviously been the one to name the kids, as they were actually creative and not repeating several times over.

But with so many watchmen on the property, Mary was surprised about how easy it was to slip away unseen.

The road was loose and crunched loudly beneath their footfalls. Mercy kept kicking a rock, and Mary watched it bounce across the ground.

“So, what’s wrong with Betty and Abby?” Mary asked.

Mercy smirked widely.

“There be witches about, Mary.”

#servant of evil #lizzie’s dumb book #my writing #original story #salem witch trials #mary warren #mercy lewis

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beautifulterriblequeen · 3 years

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Mmmm'kay, I'm loving this arranged marriage au, the possibilities are endless. But... imagine if once they got married and they went to their shared home for the first time and they found only one bed? The tension. And then they're both like, "I don't wear a shirt to bed..." 😂

Yeah anon, it really grew on me too. It was going to be angstier as I was writing, and then I realized, wait, this has so much potential, so I softened it up a bit.

So “there was only one bed” in the “arranged marriage au”, huh, got it.

Here’s the first part

cw and tags: angst, trust issues, double entendre noises, naked cuddling, pining, sleep deprived Runaan has his own opinions, light bdsm but for angst reasons, biting, falling asleep on someone

____________________________

Runaan stalked in through the tree house door ahead of Ethari, dropping his flower crown carelessly atop a side table. Ethari slowed to catch it from sliding to the floor, hanging them both on pretty silver hooks set into the wall. The hooks were meant to hold the flower crowns as they dried and became a nostalgic reminder of Moonshadows’ vowing night, a permanent decoration to be seen by all who entered the home. Every vowed household had one.

Ethari stilled as Runaan’s footsteps retreated up the curved staircase and faded from earshot. He ran a soft fingertip along the edge of a lunabloom petal and felt a heaviness settle on his shoulders.

“My vowing night,” he murmured, so softly that only the flowers could hear him. “I imagined it very differently when I was a wee lad. With more kissing, for sure. I barely got any--”

A soft cough outside the door perked his ears with alarm. He whipped the door back open and stared out at a sheepish Lain.

“Hey, bro.” The rangy assassin straightened up from a crouch near the door’s crack and slouched easily against the tree’s thick bark. “How’s things? Need anything before you two tuck in for the night?”

Tucking in doesn’t seem to be on Runaan’s to-do list, I’m afraid. But Lain’s smirk told Ethari that he might be missing something. “Lain, what are you doing?”

“Vowing vigil, bro. Assassin thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Ethari’s feet hurt from hours of dancing beneath the full moon’s light, and he was starving and exhausted. But for the sake of his brand new husband, he pasted on a smile and asked curiously, “Maybe you could explain it to me? ...Bro?”

Lain blinked, and then a broad grin sidled across his face and decided that it liked it there. “Sure, bro. Assassins have each others’ backs, yeah? No matter what. When one of us falters from injury or falls ill, the others gather around to keep them safe. When one of us lets his guard down, we gather, too, and hold ours high.”

Ethari squinted in puzzlement, not following Lain’s secret assassin lingo.

Lain flicked his gaze up toward the various branches overhead, belonging to half a dozen different trees. “Runaan’s our leader now. But he’s gonna let his guard down tonight, for you. And we’ll hold vigil to defend him while he does it. No matter how many times he does it,” Lain added, with a giant, cheesy wink.

Despite Lain’s suggestive joke, Ethari’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment and his tummy miserably curled in on itself. He recalled Runaan’s clipped words on the day they’d finalized their betrothal: “Don’t you dare kiss me again. You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.” Runaan wouldn’t be letting his guard down, in any respect, today. Or possibly ever.

“Thank you for your courtesy,” the woeful craftsman managed, before turning away and closing the door in Lain’s face.

His feet found the stairs, and he trudged upward with a heavy heart, just wanting to find a place to crash and sleep. High narrow ceilings that slotted up through organic gaps in the tree gathered darkness overhead, winking with mushroom light and the odd moonfly. Delicately carved walls and living lattice windows showed him various rooms along the side of the stairwell that wound upward around the heart of the tree itself.

This place is beautiful... I’ll have to explore later, after I catch some sleep. Where is the bedroom in here, anyway? Ah, here-

He came to an abrupt stop outside a graceful wooden arch twined with soft glowing vines and nearly bumped right into Runaan, who was swiftly exiting the bedroom with an armful of blankets--as well as cheeks the color of moonberries. Their eyes met--Ethari’s seeking, Runaan’s vulnerable, darting away. Ethari glanced over Runaan’s shoulder, seeking the source of his seeming distress, but saw only a spacious, neat, empty room behind him.

“Where are you going?” he asked Runaan.

Runaan studied the blankets he held, then raised a wry gaze to Ethari’s face. “There is only one bed here. I will sleep elsewhere.” He moved to slip past Ethari into the hallway.

Ethari’s hands clutched at Runaan’s shoulders. “No, you can’t do that.”

Runaan’s gaze was cold. “Take your hands off me.”

Ethari jerked his hands back as if they’d been burned. “Sorry. I only meant that... the assassins are watching the tree house tonight, and they’d know that you... that we didn’t... uhh...”

Runaan’s eyes widened and his gaze sliced toward the nearest outer wall, looking vulnerable, hunted even. Ethari’s heart clenched at the sight. Had the assassins’ supposed vigil slipped his mind? Was it just a prank Lain was pulling?

“That’s... really a thing, then?” he asked.

The quirked frown that snapped into place on Runaan’s face seemed to indicate that it was.

“It seems we’re trapped in here until moonrise,” Runaan grated.

Wow, that makes me feel great. Thanks for that. Ethari let his shoulders slump as Runaan spun and retreated deeper into the bedroom.

The assassin plopped his blankets on the foot of the broad bed. Ethari approached and stood beside him at a safe distance, studying it analytically. Runaan shot him a side glance and opened his mouth sharply, but Ethari spoke first. “No one needs to sleep on the floor. Look at this bed. It’s enormous. Five elves could sleep here and not even touch.”

“You exaggerate. I only see room for three.”

“Oh, should I go invite Lain to sleep between us, then?” Ethari teased, before he really grasped the words he just said.

Runaan rounded on him. “Is this funny to you? Have you no respect for--?” The assassin managed to snap his mouth shut before he said anything further, and he huffed a furious snort.

Ethari backed away, his guts swirling with guilt. He’d fooled the village council into choosing him as Runaan’s marital ally, hiding his feelings from them, and from Runaan too. And then he’d tried to steal his first kiss, blurted the truth, and confessed what felt like an innocent, wholesome, clever chain of events. Except now Runaan didn’t trust him. Their union had meant to strengthen Moonshadow relations, but Ethari had brought the seed of deceit into its very heart.

He looked down at his boots, silent, waiting. This was no time to try to earn back Runaan’s trust. That would be a long and painful process as it was. Better to start when his husband wasn’t actively yelling at him.

Maybe tomorrow, after a good night’s rest. If we can manage to figure out how and where to find it.

When he peeked up at Runaan through his lashes, the assassin was staring at him with wide intense eyes. Ethari raised his brows. Runaan kept staring. Not fondly, either. Ethari’s shoulders slumped, and his gaze found the smooth wooden floor. The grain was beautiful, he noted, full of deep blue-silver swirls.

Runaan tucked his hands behind his back, cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “I apologize. This is no way to begin our... arrangement. If we must share a bed, then I suggest we get to it. We’ve had a long day of... of getting married. You must be as tired as I am.”

Ethari offered him a tired half-smile. “Do your feet hurt too?” he asked softly.

Runaan’s brows evened out. “I’m on my feet all day. Hours of dancing are no hardship.”

Ethari let his eyes slide toward the outer wall of the tree house, beyond which he knew several assassins were pretending not to eavesdrop. “That’s a real shame, Runaan.”

Runaan’s eyes zeroed in on him with intense focus. “Explain.”

-*-*-

“Ah, right there, push harder,” Runaan moaned, writhing lightly on his stomach atop the soft bed. His long hair sprawled, tousled and tangled, across his bare back.

“You sure you can take it?” Ethari’s question breathed through closed teeth as he bent to his task, hands working over the assassin beneath him, lending his body weight to the sweet, insistent pressure he offered.

“I’m going to be sore when I wake, no matter what,” Runaan said breathlessly against the pillow he clutched. “Your hands are v-very skilled--aah-- Please, please, continue... hnngh... aahhh...”

Ethari chuckled softly at the sweet, desperate noises Runaan was making. The lanky assassin looked delicious all stretched out before him, all long legs and tousled hair and breathy gasps. He dared to hope that, one day, Runaan might make them for another reason besides getting an intense calf massage to work out the knots from too much dancing.

Runaan’s other foot kicked helplessly atop the blanket as Ethari pressed a knuckle into a new knot high on Runaan’s calf. “Hhhgh, moon and shadow,” he cursed.

Ethari’s hands paused, holding Runaan’s muscled calf protectively. “Too hard?”

“Mm’mm. Keep going. It’s good for me.”

“I’ll slow down,” Ethari offered. “I don’t want to break you on our first night.” He couldn’t help but say that last line with a sassy grin.

Runaan’s head popped up from his pillow, and he shot Ethari a hot glare over his shoulder. “You couldn’t possibly--”

Ethari drove his knuckle deep into the knotted muscle.

“AAH-ha-haagh, moondimmit, fuck!” Runaan swore. “Light and shade of the sacred cycle, have mercy on my s-soul...” he squeaked.

“Ooh,” Ethari cooed, “I like it when you plead.”

Runaan’s gaze could’ve stripped the bark off the entire house in a single slice.

A sudden sliding scuff on the branch outside the shuttered window drew their attention. It was swiftly followed by a quiet yelp as someone outside lost their footing.

Ethari paused his hard kneading and flicked his eyebrows with another sassy smirk. “Well, that’s three assassins we’ve overwhelmed so far. How many more do you think will want to listen in?”

Runaan let his forehead plop into the pillow as he caught his breath. “It’s been an hour. We’ve made our point. And I’m not sure I can walk at the moment.”

“You want me to carry you somewhere?” Ethari offered softly. He rested a light hand against the back of Runaan’s knee.

“No, I just want to sleep with you now.”

Ethari blinked, unsure he’d heard right. “S-Sorry?”

“We’ve established that I can’t sleep anywhere else, Ethari. So I have to sleep with you. All I meant.” Runaan groaned and rolled into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. One hand reached for Ethari’s scarf. “You don’t plan to sleep in that, do you?”

“Uhh. Nope.” Ethari tugged his scarf free. “I don’t sleep in much, actually... I get hot... uh...” Like right now. It’s really hot in here all of a sudden!

“Hm. That’s fine. I don’t sleep in anything at all.” Runaan stood up and shucked off his trousers with zero ado whatsoever.

“Hrkk!” Ethari choked against a fist. “Are-Are you s-sure you...” Moon help me, I’m just infinitely gay, infinitely, did he just, did he-- Help....

Runaan turned around and looked down at him, hands on his narrow hips. Ethari desperately locked his eyes onto his new husband’s turquoise ones, feeling his cheeks burn.

“I’ve got about five minutes of consciousness left before I crash,” Runaan said in a cool tone. “And I’m not falling asleep around someone I don’t trust, unless I can control the risks he poses.”

Ethari gulped. “Wh-What does that mean? Are you going to tie me up or something?”

Runaan raised a speculative eyebrow.

-*-*-

“Not too tight?” Runaan murmured, kneeling at Ethari’s side as the craftsman lay on his back, wearing nothing more than a soft pair of sleep shorts--which was more than Runaan was wearing. His fingers lightly adjusted the soft bindings around Ethari’s wrists.

“This really isn’t necessary, I promise,” Ethari began. “I’ve already agreed to--”

“I know what you’ve said. I also know the depth of your capability for deceitfulness. If you’d been truthful, we wouldn’t need restraints.”

We. How “we” does he mean that? Ethari wondered.

“Now roll onto your side,” Runaan ordered. “I’m not turning my back on you again, and I’m keeping you right where I can find you.”

With his eyes wide and dark, Ethari rolled over and felt Runaan tuck his bare body behind him, nestling close. Ethari’s breathing stuttered as Runaan hooked one leg atop the craftsman’s hip, pinning him in place. He clutched his softly tied hands to his chest to reassure himself that he was still breathing. This was torture of the worst kind! To be in love with such a beautiful elf, to be allowed to marry him, to share a bed, to watch him strip down and snuggle tightly--and to have it all mean something entirely different than what Ethari had begged the universe for--it was the sweetest dagger in his heart. He knew he’d never recover from its wound, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

Runaan’s hand snaked between Ethari’s arm and his ribs and clasped his wrists lightly, tucking one seeking finger under the bindings. The touch was so intimate and gentle, as if Runaan were admitting that he too were bound the same way as Ethari was, that it brought a shaky tear to the corner of Ethari’s eye.

His struggles to smooth out his breathing did not go unnoticed, however, since the assassin was pressed skin to skin against his back. Runaan’s fingers gently rubbed along Ethari’s wrists, soothing the cord’s rub.

“Sometimes I don’t trust myself, either.” Runaan’s voice was slurred with sleep. His five minutes had come and gone, perhaps a couple of minutes ago.

“I swear to you, Runaan,” Ethari said, breathing his words like a prayer, “I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted this.” He wriggled his bound wrists against Runaan’s grip.

Runaan squeezed the bindings possessively. “Maybe I did.”

Ethari gasped slowly at Runaan’s sleepy confession. Then he gasped harder as Runaan’s mouth closed over the skin at the base of his neck. Runaan instinctively clasped him still with all his limbs, holding Ethari in his control with a soft hum that grew gentle teeth against his skin. Ethari froze, entirely breathless, trembling with a heady concoction of delight, fear, and arousal. “R-Runaan?”

Runaan’s mouth nibbled gently, sleepily. “Mmmm.”

“Runaan, are you... awake?”

The assassin’s teeth grazed his skin and claimed his ear, biting gently, sucking on its tip. “No. And don’t you dare tell me about this in the morning.”

A waterfall of helpless, confused, ecstatic noises tumbled from Ethari’s mouth. Runaan’s hands began roaming him, and his teeth dragged and nipped in their wake, drawing gasps and curses from Ethari’s lips, making him writhe against his husband. Runaan’s nibbling became insistent, and he crawled across Ethari, pushing him onto his back, pinning his bound hands over his head even as his mouth worked along the lower curve of Ethari’s left pec.

Ethari bucked helplessly and groaned until his voice shredded into a needy whine. “Runaan, please... aah...”

Runaan nipped his way across Ethari’s heart and along the side of his neck, drawing ever louder sounds of pleasure from Ethari’s lips. He eased down flush atop him, tucking his long slender legs outside Ethari’s sturdy ones. Rampant heat flared between them. But while Ethari was getting worked up, Runaan was relaxing bonelessly, his breathing slowing.

He pressed his mouth to Ethari’s ear, nipping gently at its lower edge. “Hold me, Ethari. I want to trust you so much.” And he let go of Ethari’s bound wrists and nestled his head against his husband’s muscled shoulder.

Ethari tensed, as desperately confused as he was aroused, but he lowered his arms to hold Runaan close, craving the smell of his hair, the weight of his body, the warmth of his breath. “I... I have you, Runaan...”

“Mmmm.” The assassin’s breathing slowed and evened out as he passed fully into slumber, sprawled without a stitch atop the elf he claimed not to trust.

Ethari felt his body throb hot against Runaan’s lax weight. With a tiny whimper, he let his head fall back against the pillow. No...This really is torture of the worst kind! He flexed his wrists against Runaan’s bindings as they rested against the small of the assassin’s back. How am I supposed to survive this kind of cruelty?

He bemoaned his indecently unfair fate for several minutes before exhaustion claimed him, too. His last waking act was to kiss Runaan’s temple and murmur, “Sleep well... husband.”

At Ethari’s soft words, Runaan let out a deeply contented sigh and snuggled closer.

Alone in the dark, and yet not quite as alone as he had been, Ethari thought he might cry, for every single reason at once.

#ruthari arranged marriage au #ruthari #ruthari fanfic #my writing #tdp angst #ruthari angst #spicy fluff #naked cuddling #enemies AND lovers

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gameofdrarry · 3 years

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Wizards Hearts Recs: Soulmates

Wizards Hearts was a four-month-long Drarry reading fest. Players were given a playing deck of 52 tropes, and were asked to find 52 different fics to read and comment on to fill their decks. To prevent the same few fics from being read, fics were restricted to only being used for the game three times before being considered ineligible for further points. The tropes and submissions list can be found here.

Check out the masterlist of fics for this trope below the cut!

📜 survival is a talent by ShanaStoryteller Rated: Teen and Up Words: 367490 Tags: Soulmate AU, Indian Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, canon? i don't know her, Slow Build, Lucius Malfoy is a bad person but a good father, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Smart Draco Malfoy, I'm offended that's a tag OF COURSE he's smart, sometimes bad things happen, but this fic isn't out to hurt you, Secret Relationship, Slytherins and Gryffindors being reluctant friends, Plotty, suprising lack of focus on soulmates for a soulmate au Summary: In the middle of their second year, Draco and Harry discover they're soulmates and do their best to keep it a secret from everyone. Their best isn't perfect. ~ “Are you trying to get killed, Potter?” Malfoy drawls, stalking forward. Quick as a serpent himself, he reaches out and grabs the snake just below the head. It thrashes in his grip, but is no longer able to bite anyone. “This is a poisonous snake, and I doubt anyone brought a bezoar with them.” Harry glares. He opens his mouth, and feels the beginning the snake’s language pass his lips, and this isn’t what he wants, what’s the point of insulting Malfoy if he can’t understand him – Malfoy’s eyes widen. He slaps his hand over Harry’s mouth, “Potter, what the hell–” ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Vortex by xanthippe74 Rated: Teen and Up Words: 20625 Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, POV Draco Malfoy, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Azkaban, Knockturn Alley, Redemption, Poverty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, brief mention of past suicide attempt, brief mention of past self-harm, Past medical abuse (over-prescription of Calming Draught), Non-graphic off-screen injury Summary: “Don’t worry, my dearest one,” Draco’s mother told him when he confided his worries to her. When he was old enough to feel the pangs of adolescent longing, but still too young to sense the storm gathering around them. “Magic will overcome any distance or obstacles to bring two soulmates together when the time is right. Circumstances will arise that steer them in the right direction; strange coincidences will make their paths cross again and again. Then the most wondrous moment arrives, when you both realize that your soulmate, your perfect match, stands before you, and from that day forward your hearts will be one.” Ten years after that conversation, the idea of perfectly-matched soulmates feels more like a curse than a blessing to Draco. Who would want a soulmate who was a schoolyard bully, a Death Eater, and a convicted felon? Certainly not Harry Potter. And Draco is determined to take this secret to the grave. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Tie My Heart to Yours by Craftybadger1234 Rated: Mature Words: 36661 Tags: Rape/Non-conHogwarts Eighth Year, Potions, Red String of Fate, Soulmates, Depression, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Child Abuse, Angst, Getting to Know Each Other, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Fluff, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Happy Ending Summary: For fun, Slughorn has the eighth year students brew a potion to reveal their Red Strings of Fate. Harry doesn't know what to think about being tied to Draco. Or how to make a relationship work between them. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Highly (in)Compatible by daisymondays Rated: Teen and Up Words: 36828 Tags: Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Romance, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Post-Hogwarts, Denial of Feelings, anxiety mention, References to Depression, Panic Attacks, Forced Dating, Enthusiastic Consent, POV Draco Malfoy, Humor, Magical Theory, Soulmate Theory, HP: EWE, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Forced Proximity Summary: Draco’s been shagging The Prat Who Lived on and off for a few months when his soul mark starts to change. Draco’s had to accept a lot of adjustments to his life, but accepting that Harry Potter could be his soulmate is one step too far. It can’t be true? Can it? ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 A Tale of Woo by Veritas03 Rated: Mature Words: 25330 Tags: N/A Summary: Harry’s a bit of a mess, despite a successful Quidditch career. Draco’s not too much of a mess, but believes his life is as good as it’s likely to get. Both want something more. Fate is going to help them out with that. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 With You, Always by acupforslytherin Rated: Mature Words: 14542 Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Explicit Sex, Dreams, Lullabies, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, hearing, TasteofSmut 2020 Summary: All his life, Harry repeatedly hears one same calming tune in his dreams. No one seems to recognize the mysterious song, until one day, Harry catches Malfoy humming it when he thinks he's alone. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Not By Duty Are We Bound by Dreaming_of_a_Bright_Sky Rated: Teen and Up Words: 17176 Tags: Graphic Depictions of ViolenceAU, Soul Bond, Hurt/Comfort Summary: Draco Malfoy has saved Harry's life so many times that it's joked about (and even bet upon) by the Aurors Harry works with. When Harry finds out how and why, it forces him to see a reality that he'd been blinding himself too. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 All Our New Years by Frayach Rated: Mature Words: 2525 Tags: New Year's Eve, Soulmates, Minor Character Death Summary: It takes too many New Year's Eves without each other but eventually they get it right. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Changing Tides by carpemermaid Rated: Explicit Words: 109687 Tags: Bisexual Harry Potter, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Dumbledore's Army, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Auror Draco Malfoy, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Patronus, Gardens & Gardening, Cultural References, POV Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Fifth Year, POV Alternating, POV Harry Potter, Wandless Magic, Coming of Age, Mutual Pining, War AU, Romance, Falling In Love, Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Healing, Post-War, Ministry of Magic, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Soulmates, Community: hd_erised, Sexual Fantasy, Wet Dream, Snogging, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Emotional Sex, Hand Jobs, Professor Harry Potter, Person of Color Harry Potter Summary: Draco has spent half of his life spouting the things his father has taught him without much thought about how he feels about what he says. When he unexpectedly comes face to face with the Dark Lord, he grapples with the harsh realities of the world and struggles with his changing views on life. Instead of doing what’s expected of him fifth year, he joins Dumbledore’s Army and learns how to defend himself, how to make his own choices, and how he can be something greater than his father’s example as he grows into his own man rather than his father’s shadow. The choices he makes change both his and Harry’s fates, intertwining their paths until they converge. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Everything a Word Can Mean by OTPshipper98 Rated: Teen and Up Words: 2355 Tags: Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Sectumsempra Scars, Pre-Hogwarts, Hogwarts Era, Post-Hogwarts, Foot Massage, Nicknames, Cuddles, Happy Ending, Drunken Confessions, Getting Together Summary: In a world where magical people are born with the nickname their soulmate will call them by tattooed on their skin... what does it mean that the word on Harry's chest is the thing he hates to be called the most? ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Danse Russe by Frayach Rated: Explicit Words: 140119 Tags: Novella, Soulmates, Angst, HP: EWE, Explicit Sexual Content, World Travel, not a wip Summary: True Love. Soul Mates. They're just words until put to the test. Harry and Draco have a bond that was forged in the hell of the post-war years and pulled them both back from an abyss of nihilism and self-destruction. Nothing can break it, or so they believed. But True Love can demand sacrifices too great to bear and deeds too terrible to justify. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 A breath worth of life by Explicit Rated: Explicit Words: 39791 Tags: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Soulmates, Terminal Illnesses, Death, Preparing for Death, Minor Character Death, Grief/Mourning, breaking up, Loneliness, Depression, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Suicidal Thoughts, Heavy Drinking, Therapy, Grief counselling, Vomit, Hospitals, Cruise, Pirates, Treasure hunts, parenting, blended families - Freeform, It Takes a Village to Raise a Child, Magic Theory, Healer Hermione Granger, Cursebreaker Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Accidental Bonding, love is the most powerful magic, Breathplay, Domesticity, Weddings, proposal, vactioning, hermione deserves all the awards, Kópakonan saves the day, Italians do it better, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Draco is father of the year, Ron is father of the year, Harry is not even in the competition, PoC Harry, POC Hermione, Long-Haired Draco Malfoy, long-haired Harry Potter, Short-haired Draco, Short-haired Harry, questionable medical ethics get handwaved here for the sake of fun, close encounters with ponies puffins sheep and other assorted fauna, Trans Luna Lovegood, Casual Sex Summary: ‘...that moment when everything clicks into place, when the circumstances are right, your magic aligns, and you touch your soulmate. You'll know then, Draco, my darling.’ His mother used to look at his father with such devotion then. ‘It will feel like breathing fresh air for the first time, you'll know you'd been living on borrowed time until then but no more. There is an entire lifetime in that one breath.’ Finding your soulmate is the one way a wix can hope to live past thirty, but if he can’t have that with Astoria, Draco is ready to check out, let his magic eat him up and be done. Harry, on the other hand, isn’t about to leave any stone unturned or path unbeaten until he finds the one person meant for him before that fated birthday rolls around. After every failed attempt he grows more and more convinced that whatever Voldemort did to him might have made him unlovable, but he will go down fighting if he has to. Hermione still thinks the whole thing is cancer but what does she know? ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Today, Forever by PalenDrome (nerdherderette), PotterArt Rated: Explicit Words: 60958 Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Voyeurism, Frottage, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Sex, Auror Harry Potter, Veela Draco Malfoy, Winged Draco Malfoy, Veela Mates, Bonding, Soulmates, Enemies to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Draco Malfoy/OMC (brief), Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Case Fic, Minor Violence, Minor Character Death, Magical Theory, Magical Biology, Muggle and Wizarding Technology, Digital Art, Embedded Images, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, Community: harrydracobang Summary: As if his recent divorce and sleepless nights weren’t bad enough, a rash of escalating crimes against purebloods forces Harry and his team of Aurors to protect the riskiest target in all of Wizarding Britain. Of course, Draco Malfoy would still be ridiculously infuriating and impossibly gorgeous. As well as a Veela. Who happens to be Harry’s mate. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Dragon Heartstrings by JET_Playin Rated: Explicit Words: 23825 Tags: Soulmates, Red String of Fate, Explicit Sexual Content, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Angst, Fluff, Romance, Implied Relationships, Top Harry, Bottom Draco, Falling In Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Tall!Harry, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Harry, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: Draco has seen the strings for almost as long as he can remember, but they don't mean anything. Anything at all.... ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Love and Paranoia by sunnyeclipses Rated: Explicit Words: 48547 Tags: Post-Hogwarts, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Addiction recovery, Near Death Experiences, Overdosing, Relapsing, Drinking, Partying, Drunkenness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, wall punching, Concern Over Someone Else's Weight, Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Pining, Falling In Love, Slow Burn, Explicit Sexual Content, Self-Esteem Issues, Auror Harry Potter, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Domestic, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Minor Theodore Nott/Pansy Parkinson, Minor Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Hurtful Comments About Drug Use, Brief suicide ideation, Christmas, Pets, Sharing a Bed, Weddings, supportive friends, Forced Proximity, classic literature, H/D Erised 2020 Summary: When Harry finds out his soulmate is none other than Draco Malfoy, he genuinely expects his life to go to shit. It doesn't help that Draco is an addict, coasting on reality-altering highs to feel something happy, something pure just once more before the comedown. What Harry doesn't expect is to care so much that it tears him apart at the seams. A story about love, drugs, and getting better. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Every Me and Every You by bixgirl1 Rated: Explicit Words: 69300 Tags: Forced Proximity, bed sharing, Legilimency, Veritaserum, Snark, Magical Theory, Tropes (please read author's note!), EWE, Falling In Love, Frotting, Mutual Masturbation, Rimming, magical sex, Really just all the sex, Gift Fic, UST, RST, Soulmates Summary: Harry liked his life just fine, thankyouverymuch — so it was bad enough when a sly fairy cursed him to leap into alternate realities. But seeing Malfoy in all of them? Definitely way too much. And worse yet: needing the bastard's help to figure out how to get out of of it. It was a disaster waiting to happen, really. Well... probably. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 you've got the antidote for me by Kandakicksass Rated: Mature Words: 20730 Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soul Bond, Red String of Fate, Heavy Angst, Terminal Illnesses, Major Illness, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: When Harry Potter unintentionally severs their soulbond before it can fully form, Draco Malfoy resigns himself to a slow death and decides not to burden Harry with a soulmate he's made it very clear he doesn't want. He's never been selfless before, but for Harry, he can try. ❤️ Read on AO3

#game of drarry #drarry #drarry recs #wizards hearts #wh masterlist

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alyss-spazz-penedo · 3 years

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@w1lmutt So tbh I probably could’ve had this ninth part of the unedited v!Wind fic out earlier; I already had it mostly written. But on the flip side, I’m sure you’ll be happy know that the whole story's going to be a bit longer than previously expected!

I only took my eyes off them for like a DAY, where did all these new plunnies come from aiieeee

I don’t want to promise the next part will also be out soon bc that feels too much like jinxing it, but, um. *side-eyes the pages and pages of Stuff I've already scribbled for the next few parts*

TW: The ending scene made me cackle evily when I first thought of it. That's it that's the warning

<<First Part 8 Next>>

Twilight climbs the ladder to the lookout post the newest Link first greeted the traveling heroes from. The kid’s perched there now, kicking his heels in the open air, head resting on arms folded against the railing—just like the first time they’d met.

Such a difference a single day makes.

“Food’s ready,” he announces himself, though there’s no way Phantom hadn’t heard him making his way up. The boy doesn’t respond. Twilight musters up his patience, makes an effort to keep his voice even and nonconfrontational. “Wild made enough stew for everyone. He’s a pretty darn good cook; you’re missing out.”

Phantom doesn’t move. “Don’t need it.”

Twilight frowns. He climbs all the way into the lookout and approaches the slumped form, stopping just outside of striking distance. “You haven’t had anything all day. You need to eat, kid,” he coaxes.

“Fuck off. Don’t patronize me.” There’s no bite to the words. Twilight folds his arms, trying to project sternness. Phantom lackadaisically flips him off without even looking his way.

Twilight sighs. “...Enjoying the view?” He prods instead, changing tack.

“...A little. I’m mostly listening. I’d... forgotten what it sounded like.” A stilted pause. Phantom sighs, so quiet it’s nearly lost on the breeze. “The village, I mean. While it was awake.”

Twilight, who hadn’t meant to provoke such honesty with his offhand comment, finds himself momentarily derailed. Phantom seems to take his silence as an invitation to continue—or perhaps he’s not talking to the other man at all, anymore.

“Aryll hugged me back today,” he says, blank. “And. Everyone’s awake. I... don’t need to sweep the porches, or trim the grass, or make sure the water in the rainbarrels is still fresh. I...”

One of the seagulls hops closer. Link holds out a hand to it automatically, but it flaps away. He stares down at his empty hand for a long moment before he seems to realize there’s no bait in it.

“It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s not anything new—I should be able to do this, greet my friends and talk to my sister and help out where I’m needed. I used to. I know I used to.”

The silence stretches.

Twilight finally sighs, breaking through the tension that had settled gauzy and ill-defined over them. “I came up here for a reason. I need to talk to you.”

Phantom finally deigns to look at him, giving the other a droll look from the corner of his eye. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be here alone otherwise; you guys have been paired off all day.”

Smartass. Twilight hisses a breath through his teeth. “Look, it’s about Time.”

Phantom tenses.

“You’ve been hurting him. You’re going to stop doing that,” he informs the kid.

Phantom’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not going to attack you guys again. And I apologized for the-”

“I’m not,” Twilight grits out, “talking about a physical wound.”

The boy doesn’t understand. How can the boy not understand? Twilight wants to pick him up and shake him.

“As far as I can tell, your only impressions of him come from legends that reverie him, and memories that hate him. He’s not whoever it is you’ve built up in your head, Phantom. Try opening your damn eyes for a change.”

Twilight stares the younger boy down. He needs the kid to understand: he is deadly serious about this.

The little hero is wide-eyed with confusion, uncertainty grinding away his usual guard. Phantom visibly chews over his words, slow, like they might make sense the third time where they didn’t the first. Skepticism paints his face. He still doesn’t get it.

But he nods. Agreement, however reluctant. Twilight will take it.

"Now come on," Twilight huffs. He stalks away. "Wild's made food; the least you could do is not let it go to waste."

~o0o~

Phantom picks at his dinner. Like he'd told the Hero of Twilight, he doesn't need it—hasn't bothered with food for a long time, frankly—but refusing to eat after it'd already been doled out to him would be terribly rude. He's not so far gone that he's forgotten all his manners.

He and Aryll sit back-to-back in a ring of people, surrounding the roaring beach fire one of the visitors had made to cook with. It's still odd, feeling something moving and breathing so close to him, but... it’s not so bad when no one’s trying to grab him. He’s fine as long as nothing's moving too quickly in his personal space.

Pressed against his sister now, he remembers the times he'd hug the statues or lean on them for comfort. He throws a few token comments into the soft evening conversation, just to hear those real, actual voices respond to him, and this alone is leagues better than relying on his memory and imagination to fill the silence.

Listening to Aryll’s excited chatter, to the gentle shifting of over a dozen living bodies gathered on the same beach... he realizes how much he’d missed this.

It’s not perfect. But for the first time in a very long while, Phantom finds himself held in the grip of a feeling that could almost pass for peace.

~o0o~

They send Grandma out to sea that night.

Dusk is not the appropriate time for someone to set sail on a long journey. But for her last voyage... the darkness will see her safely to her destination. That’s what the villagers say, at least.

Phantom’s lost his share of people over the years. He hates that he should be used to goodbyes—hates hates hates that this time is different.

(It’s not even that she’s family; he was old enough to remember his parents, after all. No, the difference between Grandma and everyone else he's lost is that he is so much more directly responsible for her death.

He might've loved and missed some of those others comparably, but Grandma... Grandma is one of his mistakes.)

~o0o~

Tetra finally comes to him in the morning.

She’d been avoiding him, and he’d been letting her have her space—no matter how much he ached to have her back again. She had every right to be angry at him, after all.

(He’d failed her. In every way that mattered, he’d failed her.

All that strength and he still couldn’t keep her safe; all that resolve and he still couldn’t get her back before Bellum had dug it’s claws in deeper than he could pry out of her; all that time, and still no Hyrule to show for it. He couldn’t even avenge her, in the end; the traveling heroes had robbed him of that killing blow.)

So of course she’s angry. Of course she’s disappointed in him, of course she's been avoiding him, of course of course.

There is a time and place for regrets, Phantom knows. That time is not now; that place is not here. Not when he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Tetra—his best friend, his partner, his anchor—finally, finally awake.

And yet. And yet.

She stands next to him without a word. They watch the dawn like that—together, with neither able to bear looking at each other.

~o0o~

The sun is fully up by the time her idiot speaks.

He fingers the mark on the back of his hand in lieu of looking her in the eye. “Do you think the power of the gods could bring her back?” He asks. He doesn’t look at her as he says this, gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “Not forever. Just... just for a little longer.”

She feels cold. “I thought we’d agreed never to make a wish.”

“...Yeah.”

Tetra scowls. “How seriously are you asking? Is this the grief or the insanity talking right now?”

“I... I don’t know.” His eyes belie this—calculating, intent. He’s looking out at the ocean, but she can’t tell what it is he's actually seeing.

“I heard the story from those other heroes. How long?” She grabs him by the arm, yanks him around until he’s forced to look at her. “How long has it been?” She demands.

Link rips himself away from her touch. “I don’t know,” he lies.

She punches him on the arm for that. He winces but she can tell it’s entirely for her benefit; he’s not hurt at all. Her blows don’t reach him anymore.

She probably hasn’t reached him for a long time, now.

“Give it to me,” she demands—suddenly, inexplicably furious. He regards her warily. She barely recognizes him anymore. “This has gone on for long enough. I never should’ve let you try to carry this power alone. Give me the Triforce, Link.”

Link’s eyes narrow. For a moment, Tetra is convinced he’s going to refuse—that she’s going to have to enlist her crew and maybe those outside heroes to hold the idiot down so she can pry the corruption from his hand.

But no. Link deflates and, for once in his life, makes things easy for her. “Okay,” he agrees, all wilted and sad and nothing like the spunky kid who once demanded a ride to the Forsaken Fortress from her on this very shore.

She lets him twine their hands together, goddess marked to goddess marked. The symbols glow together, synchronized in a way their bearers used to be, and when they open their eyes Tetra has an extra golden triangle on her hand.

The Triforce of Power is a trip. Link’s eyes are blue again, and they widen in alarm when she pins his wrist, when she seizes him by the collar and drags him around like it’s nothing. “That’s not enough,” she growls. “I said, give me the Triforce. All of it, Link.”

“Tetra- what are you-”

“Give it to me!” She shakes him a little. “Now!”

“No! Have you lost your mind-”

She backhands him. It's the easiest thing in the world.

He goes staggering, one hand flying to his cheek and the other reflexively dragging that terribly familiar sword from thin air. He freezes before he can raise it against her. "Tetra...?"

"Fine." She cracks her knuckles. "The hard way, then."

"What are you doing?"

He looks frightened. Of her. Is this what they've come to, now? Tetra could almost laugh, could almost cry. She draws her blade instead of doing either.

"Making sure something like this never happens again," she vows, eyes burning gold, and strikes without holding back.

#Vinked Universe #my writing #mwahaha #I couldn't resist one last cliffhanger #...lmao 'one last' listen to me #so you know how I mentioned last time that this fic is almost done?#so that was a fucking lie #I figured out how the PH stuff would've gone down and I swear the wordcount just exploded on me #me @ my brain: but y r u like this 😥

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melanielocke · 3 years

Text

Lost in the Shadows - chapter 11

AO3

Chapter list is getting a bit long, link to all chapters is on my pinned post.

Taglist: @nott-the-best @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite

Cordelia dreamt of a castle in the middle of the forest. She wasn’t sure what was happening, all she knew was she needed to get away, this wasn’t right. There was a woman with empty eyes and long dark hair, something similar to what Thomas had described when he’d seen the washer woman? She was carrying a basket with bloodied clothes and bent over into a stream to wash them. This had to be her, the same woman Thomas had seen.

‘Bearer of cortana,’ she hissed, her voice an awful shriek. ‘Beware the thief of souls.’

Cordelia woke up and when she checked her phone she realized it was noon. Everyone had to be up already, she rarely slept this late. She had gone to bed at eleven yesterday and fallen asleep rather soon, which meant she had slept for thirteen hours. Cordelia wondered why, she rarely slept this long. Yesterday had been a long and exhausting day for sure, but this exhausting? She picked out a simple dress and changed. Dresses were easy in that regard, since it only required her to pick out one item of clothing and she was done, instead of having to match several pieces.

Lucie was eating at the table, and Cordelia wondered if that was her breakfast or lunch. Considering the time, probably lunch.

‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were going to wake up at all, or if you needed a prince to come kiss you awake. Or princess. Royal figure of indetermined gender.’

‘I did have a weird dream,’ Cordelia said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I only just woke up. Which is weird, because I don’t usually sleep for thirteen hours.’

‘You must be very well rested then,’ Lucie said, getting up from her seat to make Cordelia some toast.

Cordelia yawned. ‘Not really. Any news?’

‘You’re the only one who slept late,’ Lucie said. ‘Thomas and Alastair went to take another walk, they’re not back yet. I’ve been theorizing on what Tatiana is doing, or what Grace is and where she came from, but so far I’m not getting any further than her trying to bring back Jesse.’

‘Alastair is an early riser, always has been,’ Cordelia said. ‘Thomas too, apparently.’

Alastair often had nightmares and with his irregular sleeping pattern, Cordelia sometimes wasn’t sure if he slept at all. And he wondered why he was always tired.

‘Uncle Gideon still thinks he might be able to reach his sister, and went into the village again,’ Lucie added. ‘Dad is with him, he doesn’t trust Tatiana but is willing to give it one more chance. So far, they didn’t find her.’

Cordelia didn’t know Tatiana and didn’t want to judge, but if her intention was to bring back her son, she wasn’t sure Gideon would be able to change her mind.

‘Have you ever heard of the thief of souls?’ Cordelia asked.

Lucie frowned. ‘Maybe… It does sound like something out of a book, maybe. Although that could have been thief of hearts too. No, doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘In my dream someone said “Beware the thief of souls”,’ Cordelia said. ‘It could be just an ordinary dream, but I can’t be sure. It might be important.’

Cordelia tried to connect the term with what Lucie had learnt about Jesse Blackthorn. He’d died, and he’d disappeared somewhere, reappearing recently around the same time a washer woman warned Thomas of unpaid debts.

‘What if Jesse didn’t just die?’ Cordelia suggested. ‘What if this thief of souls is called by that title because it takes people’s souls in exchange for whatever someone asks for, and that’s what happened to Jesse.’

‘And then Tatiana made another deal to get him back, and right now he is a ghost,’ Lucie said. ‘Which might explain why the debt is no longer considered paid even if Jesse is still dead.’

‘But if that’s true, then how can we save Thomas?’ Cordelia asked. ‘We’d have to give back Jesse.’

‘Or we defeat the thief of souls,’ Lucie suggested. ‘That way we can save both Jesse and Thomas. No one deserves to be held as a price by such a being.’

‘Can something called the thief of souls even be killed though,’ Cordelia mused. ‘It sounds like a very powerful, perhaps even immortal being.’

‘They say cortana can kill anything, right?’ Lucie said.

‘You’re right, they say it can even kill immortal beings. But I’m not sure even with cortana I would stand a chance against such a thing, there’s also the matter of fighting it. I’m not giving up on either of them and if it comes down to a fight, I will fight. But perhaps we’re overlooking something and there’s another way to save them both.’

Still, if there was a way to kill such a thing, it was cortana. Cordelia would give it her best. She’d always wanted to be a hero, now she would have to prove she had what it took.

‘I don’t like giving up on Jesse’s soul,’ Lucie said. ‘And we definitely can’t let Thomas die.’

‘Either way, I’m going to practice,’ Cordelia said.

She and Alastair had practiced fighting together in childhood, both carrying wooden swords that had been made to match cortana in weight distribution. Since the real sword was so sharp, practicing with it together was too dangerous, but the wooden swords had worked. Alastair had lost interest in his early teens after cortana had chosen Cordelia, only joining her in practice when she begged him to.

She was used to the sword now, to its weight, the way it felt in her hand, and she knew how to fight with it. She’d never actually fought anything though, and according to her father that was the best way to learn. He’d trained her when she was very young. Their training together had become less and less frequent though, and for a long time Cordelia thought it was because he’d gotten sick.

She practiced her movement with the sword, repeating combinations of both attacks and defenses in one fluid motion. Cordelia had never doubted that someday she would fight evil with cortana. It was her destiny after all, and someone had to carry the sword. She’d always wanted to be a hero, like her father once was.

But now everything was coming much closer than she liked. Now Thomas’ life was in danger and Cordelia had no idea how to save him. Now she realized cortana alone might not be enough. Not when she had no idea what to fight, no idea what was coming to claim Thomas’ life. She wasn’t so sure anymore if this life was going to be what she dreamed it would be. She was scared she would end up like her father. Alastair refused to admit it, but Cordelia suspected he shared that fear, even if he had decided he didn’t want to devote his life to the supernatural.

‘That looks good,’ Lucie said. ‘Could you teach me, how to use a weapon?’

Cordelia frowned. ‘I only have cortana, I don’t have any other swords. Alastair does have daggers though. When he comes back, you could ask him to borrow one. Even if you don’t know how to fight with it, you would have a chance to defend yourself.’

Cordelia continued with some more complicated moves, practicing swift dodges followed by attacks. She had to be ready for anything. Lucie returned inside, and emerged a while later with a glass of water.

‘You need anything to drink?’

Cordelia gratefully took the glass of water and drunk it all as fast as she could, spilling a few drops. When training, Cordelia tended to get lost in herself and forget to drink. Lucie had the same problem when she was writing, but had several daily phone alarms telling her to drink.

‘I looked up that boy in the lake to see if they made any progress in the investigation,’ Lucie said. ‘So far it seems like he drowned, but the parents requested an autopsy because they think it’s unlikely since their son is such a good swimmer.’

Cordelia had expected as much. ‘At least now the parents have some closure. Poor child.’

‘I can’t imagine,’ Lucie said. ‘And the story of being trapped, it’s so similar to what Jesse said. Although the boy didn’t mention seeing any monsters or being stalked by something.’

‘There are vague stories of people getting trapped in places in the wild, but I’ve never seen anything that proves it’s real,’ Cordelia said. ‘Nothing like you described, at least not in the stories I remember from my father.’

‘I imagine most people don’t live to tell the tale,’ Lucie said.

‘I know, but… My father might have survived such a thing, and I don’t think I ever heard about it from him.’

Cordelia suspected that with the many years her father had travelled the world to slay evil creatures, he had told her and Alastair the most exciting stories and there were a few she might not have heard. Though she imagined something trapping people would be considered exciting. Perhaps her father did know more, but Cordelia was terrified to contact him, and she didn’t want to ask anyone else to either.

She still felt betrayed by him. She could sympathize with an addiction, it was an illness and she couldn’t blame him for seeking something that eased his pain. She knew her father had seen things most only saw in horror movies, she understood why he might want to forget. But he’d lied to her about it. She knew why Alastair had wanted to protect her, she didn’t blame him for not telling her the truth. Her father though? He’d gladly gone along with Alastair’s attempts to keep her in the dark, pretending to be overcome with sickness when he was drunk. Pretending the scent of alcohol was really medication for his illness. He’d often asked for her when he was sick, and she’d gone to read him stories, to keep him company while he rested. She hadn’t understood at the time, why Alastair didn’t like her taking care of him, why he’d insisted Father was sick and needed sleep even when her father kept asking for her.

As a dutiful daughter, she’d always gone when her father asked for her. She’d read him stories, kept him company, believing he was sick and not drunk. She had given up other obligations for him. She’d missed school parties she’d been excited about, because she couldn’t bear to leave her sick father after he’d asked her to stay.

Only now did she realize that as a father, he should have encouraged her to go anyway and have fun. That taking care of her father was not her responsibility and he should not have expected her to give up so much for him. Alastair had always tried to convince her that it was fine, that he could take care of Father too and he didn’t need her there. A couple of times he had managed to convince her, Alastair insisting she would regret it for a long time if she missed Lucie’s birthday party. She was still grateful that Alastair had practically dragged her away that day. No one else had shown up for Lucie, all the other children she’d invited thought she was weird and at that age Lucie had been desperate to be liked by her peers. Cordelia had almost abandoned Lucie too.

Now she understood why father had always asked for her, and not Alastair or her mother. She’d always believed it was because she was more like her father, because she was more affectionate whereas Alastair and her mother were rather closed off. Now she understood her father had preferred her because she was the only one who didn’t know he was drunk, because she would be kind and feel sorry for his sickness whereas Alastair resented him for being too drunk to be take care of his children. No, even if he knew the most about the supernatural from all his travels, Cordelia was not ready to call him to ask and she would never ask Alastair to do such a thing. No matter how betrayed she felt, what he’d been through was worse and he should never have to speak to their father again.

‘You alright, Daisy?’ Lucie asked.

‘Just thinking,’ she said. ‘Maybe my father does know more, but I can’t… I really can’t ask him.’

Lucie nodded. ‘I understand. If you really think he knows more, perhaps dad can call him instead to ask. And perhaps uncle Gabriel and aunt Cecily know more as well.’

Cordelia figured she could ask, but she feared her father would make it difficult for them. She’d learnt just how manipulative he could be, and she could easily imagine him refusing to talk to Will unless he’d let him talk to her.

Cordelia decided to practice a little longer, it had been a while with everything that had happened lately, and there wasn’t much space or opportunity at her aunt Risa’s apartment. She couldn’t be unprepared.

Lucie sat down to watch, book in hand, but Cordelia didn’t think she was making any progress reading. Instead, Cordelia caught her staring at her movement. Perhaps Lucie was studying her movements, in an attempt to learn more about fighting herself. Ultimately, it all came down to practice though. You didn’t learn how to fight by watching other people do it.

‘Aren’t Alastair and Thomas taking a little long?’ Lucie wondered. ‘They left early in the morning.’

‘I figured they’d be at the cottage with Sophie,’ Cordelia said. ‘They’re not?’

‘Mom is there with aunt Sophie,’ Lucie said. ‘She just texted me, we could come over for some tea as well. She mentions all four of us, apparently aunt Sophie would like it if Thomas came back for tea as well. So mom must have assumed they returned here after she left.’

Cordelia frowned. ‘What time is it?’

‘Four in the afternoon,’ Lucie said. ‘Dad also texted that he and uncle Gideon couldn’t find Tatiana and are coming back. But I haven’t heard anything from Alastair and Thomas. I’m not sure about Alastair, but it’s not like Thomas to disappear for so long and not let anyone know.’

Alastair could lose track of time on his long walks, but this was extreme even for his standards, and he would have at least texted her by now if he’d changed plans.

‘That is one long walk’ Cordelia said. ‘I’ll call Alastair.’

She turned cortana back into her necklace and took her phone out of her pocket, calling her brother. He didn’t answer, which was unlike him. She tried again. Nothing. She texted him instead, asking him if he was alright and when to expect him back. Alastair didn’t receive the message, maybe his phone had died. He rarely forgot to charge it though.

‘He’s not answering,’ Cordelia said. ‘I’ll try Thomas.’

Thomas didn’t pick up either, after several tries, and when Cordelia texted him he didn’t receive anything either.

‘Nothing either.’

‘Perhaps they don’t have cell service,’ Lucie said. ‘If you go far enough into the woods, that would happen.’

Cordelia guessed Lucie had a point, but that didn’t explain why they were spending almost a whole day into the woods. They weren’t experienced hikers, they must get tired at some point, right? And they would have at least let someone know if they would be gone for so long, this was worrying even for Alastair.

‘Maybe we should go looking for them.’

‘They could be making out though, maybe they don’t want to be interrupted,’ Lucie suggested.

Cordelia frowned. ‘In the middle of the woods?’

Lucie shrugged. ‘Who am I to judge?’

‘They’ve been gone for long enough that I think we should go looking,’ Cordelia said. ‘They could be in trouble.’

She put on some different shoes that were better suited for the forest and texted Will they were going to look for Alastair and Thomas, warning them to come find them if they took too long.

‘Do you really think they could be in trouble?’ Lucie asked when they walked into the forest, nervous.

Cordelia understood Lucie was scared, but if she was then how had she run after Tatiana into the woods just yesterday evening? If anything, her friend was chaotic.

The forest was a bit darker than she was used to in the bright sun, which was odd. The fog was a little thicker than usual, and Cordelia made sure to stay close to Lucie.

‘I don’t know,’ Cordelia said. ‘But only one way to be sure.’

A howl pierced the air. Cordelia could only tell the general direction it was coming from. It didn’t quite sound like a wolf, but it was similar enough.

‘Stay behind me,’ Cordelia said, removing her necklace and taking cortana into her hand. ‘I don’t know what that is, but I’m not going to let it harm my brother.’

#Cordelia Carstairs #Lucie Herondale #Thomas Lightwood #Alastair Carstairs #Lucelia #Thomastair #Fanfiction #fic #the last hours #tlh

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