#preferably with a gown; a sword strapped to my back and a dagger on my thigh | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catearsandchaos · 7 years

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It appears I’m incapable of just posting a story without rambling for a long time before it. Because this is probably going to be long. But it’s good to just get your thoughts down every once in a while, I suppose.

I stopped giving out hugs a few weeks ago. It just slowly phased out of my life. I slept in for one too many mornings and couldn’t find the time to do it, but I’d lost the interest in picking it back up again. I increased the list of people, it jumped from 16 to 38 as I dived headfirst into a couple more fandoms and found some more lovely people on this site and, as the maths would suggest, the ratio of people who reply to the people who do not also increased.

I understand why people wouldn’t. There will be people on here that, as a rule, don’t reply to asks from people they do not know. And I’ll be the first to admit that if you haven’t had a message from me before and know what I’m doing, it looks suspicious as heck, especially when it links back to an almost empty blog.

So I went a fortnight with no email pinging into my inbox telling me that someone ‘answered your ask’. And that was a big pulling the carpet out from under your feet moment for me. Because I relied on those messages a lot for a little bit of happiness in my day, and to have it gone was a big absence.

A lot has changed in my life since I last posted here. I’ve started going to counselling for my anxiety. I’ve started to talk to people more. I took a complete break from school work for the first time in years and I feel so much better. And yesterday I got two emails from tumblr. 2 replies to very old hugs. And one of them, from the lovely @spicytoast, reminded me why I did this, why I started it. To try and help other people in any way I can, whether I know them or they know me or not. And I sent another one this morning, for the first time in ages. And it felt good.

So I’m going to pick it up again, starting today. Because I hope that these messages can do some good, even if they never reply. And that’s fine by me. I know to expect it and I shouldn’t let that stop me.

So here is the story. For those who care, this was written last year for an English Controlled Assessment that I loved doing. The brief was to write a creative piece based around the title of a film. Which I realise now was basically an invitation to write fanfiction, but I chose to write an original piece at the time.

This one is a bit more typical of my usual stuff. It’s written in my favourite person to create in, second person which deserves more love than it gets, and its a bit darker that the previous things that have gone up here. Mentions of blood, fighting, manipulation, questionable relationships, death and suicide. I’ve never seen the film it’s titled after, I just founded it while searching the internet for a title, but this is ‘I’ve Loved You So Long’.

With a dagger at your neck and the tip of an arrow pressed against your skull, you know you have no chance of escape. You may be good, the best your Master has trained, but even you are not that good.

You drop your stolen sword, splashing your richly decorated skirt with blood, landing with a dull thunk that echoes within the empty hallway.

“Good.” A voice purrs from behind you, smooth and deep. “Any other weapons we should know about?” He asks pleasantly.

“No.” Your voice comes out a fraction higher that you intended and you have no doubt he’s picked up on it. He’s been trained in these matters as well as you were, after all.

You feel the dagger dig further into your neck. A drop of scarlet falls silently to the white, marble floor.

“Let us try again.” He drawls, his arrogant attitude so familiar to you after five years of training together. “Any other weapons we should know about?”

“There are two daggers under my skirt.” You relent, not willing to go through the pain he would not hesitate to put you through. He was always an expert at interrogation and torture. You can still remember the screams and pleas from the dungeons that echoed through the old mansion when he practiced his craft. “They’re strapped to my leg.”

Your silver gown is mercilessly slashed at the knee, the fine silk dropping to the floor to be kicked away by a dirty boot, leaving black streaks over the fine material. Your daggers clatter into a corner, the emeralds on the hilt glinting in the sun.

They were your daggers, a gift from the Master after your first kill. You always kept them on you and they were always kept in the best condition. No one else touched them, on pain of death.

“Any more?” You have plenty more weapons. Three more blades hidden in the folds of your ball gown and the slips in your hair are as sharp as any knife. But the one you direct him towards next has a smirk playing on your lips.

Just inside your tightly pulled corset is a thin blade, small enough to sit comfortably against your breast. You hear him cough delicately when you mention it. He was always so sensitive about such things, even when you were lovers. You leer at him as he comes into view.

“You always found such things amusing.” He scoffs as he delicately removes the blade. “You did prefer to seduce your victims before killing them. Does the Master know how many you took to bed before completing his orders?”

“And does the Master know how many of your victims went missing when we had our information?” You shoot back. “You always were too weak hearted for your own good. I should be dead by now. Captured in the young Archduchess’ debutante ball, loaded with weapons? I should have been shot on sight.

“So the question is; why haven’t I been? We haven’t worked together in months. You hold no more loyalty to me. Unless it goes deeper than that.” You shift slightly to gauge his reaction to your next words, ignoring the light scratch of the ever present dagger. “Unless… you still have feelings for me.”

You watch in delight as he stiffens, a slight pink blush covering his cheek.

“You do!” You crow. “You haven’t killed me because you care for me. Do tell,” you ask eagerly, as if this is some fascinating fairy-tale, “How long have you wanted me?”

You wait for a minute in the silence, disappointed he doesn’t rise to the bait, before he answers.

“Since the first minute I saw you.” He says quietly, his previous arrogance fading, revealing the turmoil behind his well-constructed mask that has finally cracked. “You looked so beautiful, so enchanting, at first I thought you were a hallucination. That nothing that beautiful could ever exist. I knew that you would never look at me; I was just a scrawny 13-year-old kid, plucked off the streets.

“But then you did. Those months I spent with you were the best of my life. And I thought you felt the same way about me as I felt about you.” He cuts off with rattling gasp of air, as if to force back tears. “And then I found out I was just one in a long line of lovers. And I loved you so damn much!” He chokes out. “I loved you so much that it hurt.

“I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. It was only my unpaid debt to the Master that kept me here, that kept me alive.” He turns to look at you, anguish swirling in his eyes. “How can I love you and hate you so much at the same time? I don’t know what to do! I should kill you. I want to kill you, for all the pain you put me through. But every time I see you I remember your laugh, your smile, and I can’t do it.”

As he paces wildly, blind to your actions, you slowly withdraw a knife from your skirt. The two men holding you watch him closely, and don’t see your knife until it’s too late. The blade at your neck falls from an unresponsive grip and you duck quickly, the released arrow skimming your head.

He turns at the clatter of the dagger, just in time to see the second man drop. You toss the knife in your hand and catch it by the blade.

“So, is this how it’s going to end, is it? Just you and me.” You throw one of the dead men’s swords at him and he catches it, hand shooting out of wrap around the hilt. You lift the remaining sword. “You remember how to duel, I presume?” You offer him a low, stately curtsy. “We bow.”

“Why are you doing this?” He asks, anguished, making no sign of movement. “Do you feel nothing for me?”

“You were a good fuck.” You offer nonchalantly. “But nothing more than that.” You dart towards him, sword outstretched. You laugh cruelly as he dodges the oncoming sword swing but makes no move defend himself. “You were pretty enough, and willing. Count yourself lucky that I decided to take you to my bed at all. I had plenty of other offers at that time, certainly from more handsome men.”

You swing your sword towards his head and he ducks. But while he refuses to use the sword in his hand, it is a matter of ease to put the point of the sword to his throat and force him to his knees.

“Then why did you?” He croaks, defeated and on his knees in front of you, a position you always thought suited him. “Why me?”

You remove the sword from his throat and lean against it casually. “The Master told me to. Told me you were slacking, always moping after me. Offered me double my usual fees for however long I took you to bed. The money made it worth it for a while, but soon better offers came in, better men, richer men. So I left.”

You know you have gone too far when he rises up from his crouched position with a growl, sword swinging. You scramble to block the attack and the fight begins for real, patterns familiar from training, but this time somehow different. You switch between the offense and defence, easily parring almost lethal blows. You were both skilled with the sword, and the Master enjoyed pitting you against each other for sport, until one was too bloody and exhausted to carry on.

The fight goes on for another quarter hour, swords flashing in an intimate dance, closer than anything you ever shared together in bed. Your dress hinders you, stopping your motions being as fluid as you would like, even with the skirt butchered as it is, but you enjoy yourself too, loving the thrill of a fight, toying a victim but never landing a killing blow.

His eyes are blank as he fights, unseeing. He’s fighting purely on instinct and it’s stopping his movements being as fast as they could, as skilled as they could. His mouth is set in a snarl. It’s an ugly look, you decide.

You are sure you can kill him; no one would miss his absence, least of all you. But in the end, it’s this over-confidence that betrays you. As he swings his sword you jump forward, confident you can parry the blow. But before you can lift your sword, the blade pierces your chest.

You fall to the ground with a pained cry and it’s this sound that snaps him out of his rage-induced stupor. He drops his weapon with a clatter and falls to his knees woodenly beside you. After a few seconds, he gathers you in his arms, uncaring of the blood staining his ripped clothing.

“No.” He mumbles, shaking you desperately, his eyes a torrent of disbelief and pain. “No, you can’t die. I can’t have killed you. No. I loved you, you know. I loved you so much it hurt. I’ve loved you so long I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want you. Come back. It wasn’t you who was supposed to die tonight.”

***

You don’t get a funeral- as a traitor to the empire your body is burnt- but if anyone ever visited the burning site at midnight, they would find him there knelt in front of a crudely made memorial, one blood stained dagger marking the place where your ashes lie.

At the light of dawn, his body is found there, his wrists slit and an identical, bloodstained dagger in his hand, emeralds glinting in the sunrise.

#rambling galore #but i suppose that's what a blog is for #*hugs*#Morven's Writings #I've Loved You So Long #//suicide

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spyvstailor · 7 years

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Here you are, chapter two of that Dragon Age thing. Uh, there’s a guest appearance. Hope I did them justice.

Chapter Two

“Hold on! Lothering caught fire ten years ago!”

Wenceslaus paused as one of the dense looking highwaymen spoke up from his spot nearby.

“You couldn't haf bin wanderin' that forest fer ten years,” the leader added, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Offering the men a broad grin, flashing that silver capped fang of his, Wenceslaus moved on smoothly. “Why, gentlemen and...lady?” He eyed the rat toothed woman, before quirking a brow and explaining, “haven't you ever heard of poetic license?”

“Yer too well spoken fer a horseman's son,” another highwayman argued.

“Elocution lessons, my mother saved up for them for an entire year, put the coins in an old--”

The highwayman leader cleared his throat sternly and folded his arms. “Kill 'em.”

“Alright, fine!” Wenceslaus said, holding his hands up before him. “I am the elocution tutor. I was raised in Orlais and my accent is impeccable, my latest charges--” a sword was aimed at his chest and Wenceslaus immediately ground to a halt.

“I fink,” the leader growled, “yer a nobleman.”

Laughing jovially, Wenceslaus prepared to continue his arguing, but his mind was quick, like an iron trap.

“Very well, gentlemen, you are too sharp for me.” He laughed nervously. “I...” the words fell dead on his tongue.

“Maybe we'll ask yer Elf,” the rat toothed woman gloated, moving up tight against the Dalish Elf.

The creature remained marmoreal on his log throne.

“He...doesn't speak our language, he's simple.”

As the rag was removed from his mouth, the Elf wet his lips, before hissing, “may I set some truths free from the trap of his lies?” He asked in a soft, deep, lilted tone.

Wenceslaus jerked his chin to his chest, affronted at the beast.

“Why not?” The highwayman leader sighed. “We have no where to be and you die at dawn. Speak, Elf.”

“It did begin in the Brecilian Forest,” the Elf began calmly. “But it was not darkspawn the woman with the book was running from, nor was she met with such able bodied help from the seth'lin.”

There was such a calm beauty to the Brecilian Forest.

Despite the Sylvan and the old ghosts of Werewolves that haunted the mists and shadows of the woods, the forest was peaceful.

For an entire night and part of the following day, Vaelyn had sat up in the trees, guarding over the ruins he had only just come upon in his hunt.

There was a small, merry fire that crackled at the entryway and a bedroll unfurled beside it.

In the middle of the ruin, with her head bowed to a book, a shemlen woman sat completely unaware of the wild nature of the woods surrounding her, so lost was she in her book, that Vaelyn watched her for an entire night and part of a day and still she was unaware that he was there.

He wasn't even trying to hide himself in the tree, standing on the thick branch, gazing down at her with curious eyes.

His clan had kept far from the humans and the cities, they preferred the wilds and the forests, so humans to him were like a golden halla. Rare and almost mythical.

And this bold shemlen just sat there, reading her book, munching on a ripe fruit and every now and then stoking her fire.

Part of him wanted to kill her, just to end this torment of endless watching, but another part of him wanted to approach her, to see what she was like up close, to catch the wafting scent of a human in his nostrils.

Gazing across the ruins to where he knew his young sister would be in her own tree, he wondered if she wasn't getting as impatient as he was. She was kinder than him and many years younger, so he knew she wouldn't be wanting blood just yet.

Raising his head, he caught the dead silence of the birds in the woods and realized something was coming upon them all. Easing down into a crouch on the limb, he reached for his bow, pulling it from his back. In the woods he used a bow because the dual daggers he usually used in combat were worse than useless.

With his eyes darting everywhere, he waited for whatever was approaching to show itself.

And then from the mouth of the ruin entrance a figure darted.

Vaelyn loaded his arrow and took aim, waiting to register the creature as friend or foe before firing.

As the figure approached the shemlen, he prepared to release the arrow, but stopped with a small gasp.

The blood smeared across the features of the Dalish Elf gave him cause to both reel in shock and worry for his brother.

Hurredly, he slipped from his spot in the tree, as the human finally noticed the Elf approaching her and jumped to her feet.

Racing towards the ruins, Vaelyn skidded under a low hanging branch and took aim again with his bow, as the shemlen raced past him, the bloodied Elf after her,sword drawn.

This Elf was not one of his people, she bore strange markings on her face.

“Ma banal las halamshir var vhen, lethallan,” Vaelyn commanded, getting between his Elvhain sister and the fleeing shemlen.

The Elvhain woman turned hard, glittering eyes on him and swung her sword at him.

Vaelyn ducked the blow and tumbled away, jumping up to find her sword embedded where his neck might have been.

“Atisha!” He barked, raising his hands. “Tel garas solasan.”

From out of the ruins came a handful more of blood covered Elvhain women and Vaelyn was hastily joined by his sister, who gripped his wrist and tugged him from the ruins.

“Garas, Vaelyn!” His sister ordered.

With hesitation, he followed her through the woods, the blood soaked women at their heels, arrows from some of their archer's bow's zipping into the forest behind them.

Who were these strange Elvhain women? What form of blood magic ritual were they performing? Which clan did they hail from?

“Wait, what's wif the blood soaked bints?” The highwayman leader interrupted just as Wenceslaus demanded.

“Your name is Vaelyn?!”

The tight mouthed Elf blinked.

Feeling a little betrayed, Wenceslaus sniffed. “Yes, well, good luck hearing my story now.”

“The Dalish have a legend, it's more of a story told to misbehaving children of the Din'an Asha, the Death Women,” Vaelyn – so called – explained. “It was these that you saw, not darkspawn.”

“Yeah, well...they looked terrifyingly like darkspawn.”

Vaelyn was silent, eyes closing.

“Death Wommin? Sounds like a good go, what do they do den? Bugger you to death?” The rat toothed woman asked.

Wenceslaus thought about dying that way, before he shook his head to clear the shivers. “No, that's not how I imagined it.”

“They steal the girl children from out of their nests,” Vaelyn explained. “And they take the boy children and dash their skulls against the rocks, bathing in their blood to gain the strength of ten men before feasting on their flesh.”

“Is that what you saw?” One of the highwayman asked. “These Death Women?”

Vaelyn was quiet, contemplative, before he nodded. “Yes.”

The men of the gang began to whisper among themselves, tightening their grips on their weapons.

“My Keeper used to tell me a tale of his brother, who met with these women. They left him alive, but took his ability to procreate. They stuck it over an open flame and consumed it right there before him.”

Several looks were cast to the woods around them, even Wenceslaus spared the trees a quick glance.

“What do they look like?”

“Blood soaked maidens,” Vaelyn said. “A woman like any other, only soaked in the blood of men, their breath reeking of rotten flesh. And once they get the scent of you, you’re hunted and good as dead.”

A twig snapped in the woods to the right of the camp and it had most of the highwaymen jumping to their feet.

From out of the darkness to their left a woman stepped into the light cast by the campfire, the blood coating her face and gown shining black.

“Death woman!” One of the highwaymen shouted and half of them fled, the other half giving pause.

The Death Woman produced a blade from the strap on her back and shrieked.

It was such a wailing, rage filled shriek that even Wenceslaus' instincts to run kicked in.

“Have 'em!” The leader of the highwayman declared, running off with his men.

The camp was cleared right out save for the Death Woman and the prisoner's.

Stalking around the camp for a bit with her blade drawn, the Death Woman seemed to be claiming the camp as hers, before she approached Vaelyn, the blade slicing down through the ropes that tied his wrists.

“You sly Elves,” Wenceslaus teased after a few minutes of silence, as the 'Death Woman' untied him. Reaching up, he cleaned away some nug blood from the young Elf woman's face. “Was it all an act?”

“I was merely playing off of the lies you wove, lethallin. I knew Orphael would return from her morning hunt soon enough and simply set about spooking the shem with old Elvhain spirit stories.”

Kneeling, Vaelyn released Wynona from the sack she was hiding in and stood up to eye the woods around them, his sister, still coated in blood, moved to join him in their vigilant watch.

“We shouldn't stay here,” Wynona suggested. “In case they find their courage to return.”

“You don't have to point out the high road to me, darling.”

“You really need to brush up on your history,” Wynona added, as she scooped up her precious book. “That almost got you killed.”

“Not me,” he replied easily. “I'm too charming. Maybe the Elf would have died. Think that ratty one liked him though so it was more likely he was about to become a husband to a rodent. Come along, we're almost to Redcliffe.”

The Redcliffe tavern was quiet when they entered, the group looking like a bunch of corpses walking, the smell of the dried blood on Vaelyn's younger sister beginning to turn Wenceslaus' stomach.

As the women headed up to their room to clean up, Wenceslaus eased down at a table with a couple of random strangers and helped himself to some bread and cheese.

The group eyed him angrily.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he returned cheerfully. “What's the news from out of Skyhold? Anything new on the whole, 'world isn't ending anymore' front?”

“Do we know you?” One of the men demanded.

“You may have heard of me,” he said. “Alistair Theirin? Ring a bell?”

The men looked amongst themselves, before they burst out laughing.

“Pull the other one!” One of them declared. “You're half knife-ear!”

Drawing a deep gulp from the man's mug, Wenceslaus grinned. “So I am.”

The laughter faltered and the men looked amongst themselves.

“The Grey Warden?”

“That's me.”

Everyone at the table stilled and eyed him warily.

“Now that is an amazing lie,” someone purred from the corner of the quiet tavern.

Wenceslaus watched as a pretty Tevinter magister stood up and approached them with an easy swagger. “I met Alistair, actually, in Crestwood. And you look nothing like him.”

“That sounds like a lie,” Wenceslaus insisted.

“And that sounds like someone who's an easy liar would say,” the magister went on smoothly, brushing his magnificent facial hair with an elegant finger.

Opening his mouth to protest, Wenceslaus shut it quickly and stood up. “You're right, buy me a drink?”

“I only buy drinks if I know the night's going to end well,” the magister shot back. “As it is, I see nothing in it for me.”

“Pretty cocksure for a 'vint far from home,” Wenceslaus said.

The man chuckled. “I am, aren't I?”

Narrowing his eyes slightly at the man, Wenceslaus was about to leave the tavern entirely, when the Tevinter said, “well, what could one drink harm?”

“As long as it's not attached to some blood ritual...” Wenceslaus replied, walking with the man towards the bar.

As the two bellied up, the 'vint cleared his throat regally and said, “nothing like a sip of ale from a dirty mug to make one question the life choices which lead them here to this moment.”

Clinking the mug against the magister's Wenceslaus agreed.

“Wenceslaus,” he introduced himself.

“Ah, introductions, good,” the magister said. “I'm Dorian.”

“And what brings you here to Thedas, Dorian?”

“Easy access to warm blood,” the 'vint teased with a small glimmer in his eye.

“That is a dark sense of humour, my friend.”

“Am I being funny? I certainly didn't mean to come off that way.”

Wenceslaus chuckled into his ale.

“And where is it that you're heading?”

“Skyhold.”

Dorian's eyes lit up. “Oh! As am I. And what does Skyhold have that you seek?”

“High walls. Yourself?”

“There's a chair in the library of Skyhold, think I'll tuck myself up there and read until I die,” Dorian replied.

“You're heading home?”

“Yes.”

Wenceslaus was quiet for a moment, before asking, “have you...ever met this Herald?”

Dorian sipped his ale with all the mien of a King, before saying, “yes.”

“What's he like?”

“He's just a Dalish Elf, like any other.”

Wenceslaus was quiet for a moment, before saying, “good.”

“Say, I'm heading there this morning with my traveling companions,” Dorian said. “How would you like to come with us? There's safety in numbers on these roads.”

#there you have it #enjoy?#I dunno i can't tell you what to do

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