#so hes torn between killing you to continue this cycle or saving you to prove hes more than a bringer of death

[darkpoisonouslove]

Witch x Witch Hunter AU

You’d be correct in guessing this is a new AU that I have come up with and I have zero idea what to title it yet! I just have to talk about it and that is why we’re doing a different WIP Wednesday this week.

To give a little history on this, I watched a review of a book that I haven’t read (Serpent & Dove) about 3 weeks ago. And it wasn’t until a week later (on my birthday actually) that I went to bed and randomly thought of a way to fix up the driving event of the book. From there my AU quickly spiraled into a novel-length story that I’m piecing together relatively quickly. This has been on my mind ever since I came up with it and I am obsessed with how it’s actually turning out. I am less obsessed with the fact that it will most certainly be 40+ chapters but what can you do about it? The story demands what it demands. I have written down half a notebook for this already and I have managed to get to the outline of chapter 18. I have solid ideas up to chapter 20 and a general sense of how the rest is going to go plus more emotional development of the characters as well as of their relationship.

To summarize briefly - Griffin is a witch who is looking to access Eraklyon’s top secret library/spell reserve. That leaves her having to face Valtor who is a witch hunter. Griffin is in for a nasty surprise when Valtor turns out to have much more powerful magic than she could have anticipated and Valtor is in for a nasty surprise when Griffin manages to stab him with his own blade. In the end of their fight, Valtor captures her and saves her life from the crowd gathering that would have torn her apart. Griffin is a prisoner to the Eraklyon crown and gets sentenced to death at the stake. However, she is offered a deal - marry Valtor to act as his cover for infiltrating the largest and most notorious witch coven and get to live another day. No one’s giving her any guarantees about her safety during the mission or her fate after her job is done and she has a secret she must protect at all costs. To top it all off, the royal family of Domino approaches her with the true agenda behind the mission and she is forced to reevaluate her own priorities and feelings on the public’s general attitude towards witches as well as her interactions with Valtor, who is struggling with the demons of his own past and present.

That was not entirely brief but I have only made it up to chapter 6-7 there. Here is a little sneak peak from chapter 8. Valtor has just informed of all the atrocities the Coven has committed and Griffin is being forced to acknowledge his disgust of witches. Or rather she’s looking for a way to avoid acknowledging it.

“Why would they do that and make everyone hate witches?” As if the general public needed more excuses to murder innocents. Covens were becoming a rarity when the most common safety precaution witches chose to take was solitude. To have the luxury of community and throw it away to make life harder for your own kind, for those witches out there who were on their own... Griffin herself was still worlds away for becoming so jaded by witches’ constant mistreatment that she’d stop caring for the people like herself.

“Because they don’t care about others. Including their own.” Valtor’s eyes had strayed from the memory of her retching over a poor’s girl agonizing death at the stake that should have been hers but there was a certain smugness to his gaze as it challenged her to prove him wrong.

“What if they’re being framed?” That was unlikely but she couldn’t lead a dialogue about nuanced moralities with his refusal to acknowledge the existence of morality in witches. She was having a hard time proving the loyalty between witches as a lone witch and he took her silence as support of his ludicrous notions.

“Why would anyone try to frame them?” Valtor was rather pushing to make her stumble than from honest interest in a continuing debate.

“To get rid of them.” Out of all people she would’ve thought he’d grasp the objective. “I told you - royals fear dark magic because it’s powerful.” Without the shackles that had been on her wrists or the chip in her neck that could blow up her magic Erendor and Samara’s crowns would have been nothing more but clay in her hands. She could have fashioned their demise with the snap of her fingers and the only person that could have stopped her was also forced to obey their will.

“It’s dangerous,” Valtor sounded like they’d put a whole new brain in him instead of just chipping him.

“You have it.” And he was a rare case of voluntary possession of magic. So many witches she’d met would have traded their magic for some peace and safety but he’d chosen to have it instead. He didn’t have the moral high ground to stand on.

“Which is how I know it. Negative emotions are a hazard to society in and of themselves. Add magic that is powered by them and we’re witnessing catastrophe after catastrophe caused by the coven you’re defending.” He wasn’t going to use her own points against her. He’d already stolen her life and her magic.

“If they weren’t necessary, they wouldn’t exist.” Dark magic wouldn’t exist either without purpose but his delusion was far too grand for that to reach through it.

“Are you telling me that I had to go through the...” Valtor swallowed, and then again - all the words he was discarding from fear, “pain I was put through?” He balled his fists and Griffin’s muscles tensed. He needed her alive, not necessarily untouched.

“That’s not what I meant.” How could she tell him he’d deserved to have his body defiled and his heart poisoned with hate? He’d brought on so much pain under the reign of his own. How could she stand to watch that cycle repeat over and over again? “I mean negative emotions in general, not in specific instances. In certain situations it is more appropriate to feel negative emotions. It wouldn’t be right not to feel sad over the loss of someone you care about.”

Valtor looked away again, his hands clasped together in his lap. Whatever he was holding in his white-knuckled grip on himself wasn’t good.

“You would want to be angry at something wrong,” Griffin licked her lips. Finding the similarities between the two of them wasn’t easier for her than it was for him. The song from their car ride was echoing in her head. Their favorite. “Without loneliness you’ll never know you want another’s presence. Fear tells you what you need to reshape to have a better life. Without any of that how can you be human?”

Valtor pounced off the bed, shoulders shaking as he turned his back on her like a wall he raised between them. “There was nothing humanly about Belladonna. She was a monster,” his voice was so low it dove below what she could hear every time he lost a grip on the trembling of it.

“Yes, a monster who happened to be a witch.” He hadn’t shown Griffin much humanity either. It only made him more human as he struggled with the weakness he’d forced her to endure as well. “Not all witches are like that. Haven’t you seen positive emotions in me, anything good at all?” Granted, she hadn’t had any reason to smile since she’d met him but that just made her more human, too, as she pushed through to find some sliver of happiness or at least something to hold on to.

Valtor whipped around, the motion so abrupt that Griffin’s stomach curled in a ball as she held her breath. He was going to crumble in pieces right there in the middle of their hotel room.

“That’s different,” Valtor croaked out, the words coming out as if he was chewing glass while he spoke just to shred them. His eyes were so wide his face had to have changed proportions permanently to accommodate his bewilderment.

“It is because you’ve never spent enough time with a witch to see anything but terror and aggression.” Griffin had to swallow tears. If not for him, then at least for the witches he’d tortured and killed just because of the evil he’d been raised with. “I am capable of all the same emotions that you feel and so are other witches. Maybe not all of them, but we’re not all evil either.” She’d caught him before he’d frozen in his own space of mind again. She had to keep him on that thin edge where she’d gotten him to meet her world. “Anyone who knows you’re a demon would think you’re an abomination, too. But you’re not, are you? You can feel something good.” Whatever sick pleasure or relief he got from murdering was not something she’d count even if it were the first thing coming to mind. But she’d seen him relax as he’d sat in the driver’s seat, had seen him tap his fingers on the steering wheel in tact with the music, had seen him radiate joy when he’d been in his element.

Valtor’s voice was hardly a whisper as his gaze burned into her eyes. “I don’t know. What does your book say?”

Griffin clutched at the pages to keep the book in her lap as she staggered. She’d pushed against the world telling her she was a monster but Valtor had only had the strength to free himself from his abuser, not from the darkness instilled in him as well. “What does your heart say?”

He gave her a soulless chuckle. “Which one? The one I ate or the one that was eaten?” His fingers twitched and closed into his shirt. He had to pry it out of his grip with his other hand to avoid tearing it off to reopen the scar on his chest. “I don’t think either one of them has felt anything good, ever.”

“There’s always a first time, right?” She was a first for him no matter what he said. Their marriage was just a cover but the blade in his hand had been real, and his murderous intent had been as tangible as the shackles on her wrists suppressing her magic. And he’d dropped it before she’d been any use for his mission.

Valtor didn’t say anything but his peace of mind was restored to let him sit back on the bed next to a witch he had to share it with.

#winx club #winx griffin #winx valtor #griffin x valtor #covenshipping #witch x witch hunter au #my wips #my fanfic #wip wednesday #excerpt #snippet #fanfic snippet

[becomewings]

Shadows of My Childhood

Analysis: ON Children + Shadows of the Past (BU/HYYH)

Note: All names herein refer to fictional characters in BU (BTS Universe/HYYH/The Notes). The events described are entirely fictional and not representative of the members' real lives.

Content warning: contains mentions of abuse, abandonment, trauma, and suicide; images of blood 

Some of the most compelling aspects of the ON official MV, and indeed most of BTS’s cinematic repertoire, are the multiple layers of meaning and opportunity for interpretation woven throughout the video. While this version of ON has not been confirmed as part of BU canon, it contains enough explicit references to visual material in other BU videos to merit analysis of the deeper thematic connections between the two.

In this post, I will specifically look through the lens of the pairing of child figures with BTS members in ON to address possible implications within the context of their corresponding BU characters. If the children of ON represent the shadows of the characters’ pasts that continue to haunt and shape them, then the relationships and interactions of the video pairings map to each character’s coping mechanism for handling these ghosts: JiMin’s denial of trauma; YoonGi’s self-inflicted destruction; and TaeHyung’s spiral of violence that starts within him yet increasingly splinters outward. But they also shed light on the future’s hope for moving forward and healing.

The blindfolded girl + TaeHyung

The child with the most screen time and arguably the most significance in the unfolding of ON’s cinematic narrative is paired with TaeHyung. But taken in the context of BU, why is the child a girl and why does she wear a blindfold? Blood ties and violence are the roots of TaeHyung’s shadows. Yet it is impossible to address the years of his suffering without acknowledging the individual who bore it alongside him, the person one may interpret as represented by the blindfolded girl: his sister.

This portrayal does not reflect their true age difference. She is depicted as a child because, as a protective brother, he views it as his duty to safeguard her innocence. The blindfold reinforces the symbolism that he is trying to protect her from the atrocities and darkness of the world. In ON, it is the aftermath of a bloody war (a battlefield upon which he possibly fell and was reborn, given the grave marker of gathered objects and the cross-like pose of his awakening). In the BU narrative, the darkness is domestic violence and their father.

As young children, TaeHyung and his sister were abandoned by their mother,  who was pushed to terrible extremes by her husband's treatment, and left to fend for themselves in the home of an abusive alcoholic. Violence is perpetuated throughout their childhood and into adulthood. Every time she suffers, he suffers too, whether by his father's hand or the guilt that he is powerless to stop him.

“Then. That night. That night ten years ago when Mom left home. That night when Mom, my sister, and I were beaten to a pulp by Dad and we cried ourselves to sleep. … My sister is weeping quietly. It was even more distressing to hear it today.” — TaeHyung, 24 July Year 22. The Notes 1.

This cycle of violence traps TaeHyung in a private nightmare, making him afraid of his own nature's potential: vengeful fantasies (and half-remembered events from parallel timelines) of killing his father; lashing out physically at his friends in moments of conflict. Perhaps more than anything, he fears turning into his father (20 May Year 22, The Notes: Her). Denial is a disease. The more he withholds the truth of his pain and fear, the deeper the darkness takes root in his heart. The pressure threatens to break outward, consuming the people closest to him, or shatter him from within. At his most desperate, TaeHyung views suicide, an act of violence against oneself, as the only way to break free of this cycle.

“I almost killed Dad who brought me into this world and who beat me every day. I almost killed him. No, I actually killed him. Countless times. I killed him countless times in my head. I want to kill him. I want to die. I don’t know what to do. I’m lost.” — TaeHyung, 20 May Year 22. The Notes 1.

Outside, TaeHyung dons a mask to conceal the circumstances of his home life, even around his closest friends. Despite his grinning and loud-mouthed persona, this mask is cracked. His friends see the signs: bruises on his face and back, the emotional marks that run deeper than skin. They follow his lead and do not speak openly of the abuse. TaeHyung refuses to acknowledge that they can see through his mask. They all skirt the uncomfortable truth:

“TaeHyung laughed sheepishly, taking off his torn shirt. Under the dim light hanging on the trailer box, for a second, I saw his bruised back. HoSeok looked at me in shock. TaeHyung looked at himself in the mirror wearing my T-shirt. And he laughed.” — NamJoon, 11 April Year 22. The Notes: Her (translation credit: KRN - ENG © ktaebwi).

“I couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling when I felt this chilly inside. His heart must’ve felt ripped and torn. Or, does he have a heart left at all? How much anguish has he endured? … I first saw the scar on TaeHyung’s back in NamJoon’s container. I couldn’t bring myself to ask about it when he was smiling so broadly with his new T-shirt present.” — HoSeok, 20 May Year 22. The Notes 1.

He cannot seek help from his friends, because that would admit his powerlessness and give voice to the truth of his suffering. And if his pain is real, then so is his sister's.

TaeHyung cannot protect her from the brutality of their father's abuse. He cannot shield her from the cruel reality of their world. The gateway to healing will never open while he turns a blind eye to the ramifications of the violence committed within his family. In ON, acceptance of these truths is embodied in his removal of the girl's blindfold. She gazes forward, unafraid, at the wall toward which she has been looking the whole time. Standing, he takes her hand and discovers that the once-impenetrable wall is in fact a gate. With open eyes, he can see the blossoming land beyond. The future has hope, if only he can face the reality of his family’s violent history.

The drummer boy + JiMin

This is not the first time a blindfold has been employed as a significant visual symbol in BTS’s MVs. Blindfolds, in the form of silk or other members’ hands, figured prominently in Wings-era BU content, particularly in association with JiMin. Therefore, it is all the more noteworthy that in ON, he is not the one paired with the blindfolded child. However, there are several cuts from TaeHyung and his blindfolded partner to JiMin and the drummer boy, or vice versa, that feel like a deliberate choice to draw attention to this absence and the contrast against previous representations. 

In the BU narrative, JiMin suffers from seizures likely caused by Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as the result of an as-yet-unspecified traumatic childhood event that he has tried, and often failed, to repress. He is forced into extended hospitalizations by his parents, who seem unwilling to face the reality that something happened to their child and seek to bury his “abnormal behavior” behind doctors and drugs to preserve the family’s appearance of normalcy.

“When I was taken to the hospital after they found me unconscious at the Grass Flower Arboretum, my parents didn’t ask any questions. They ignored the fact that I had blacked out there. It was the same when I developed seizures. They hospitalized me, discharged me after some time, and transferred me to another school. Family reputation was important to them. A son with mental illness was unacceptable.” — JiMin, 11 May Year 22. The Notes 1.

JiMin, for his part, wants to live a normal life by attending school and cultivating friendships. Maintaining both presents challenges that he struggles to overcome, doubting his own fortitude and questioning the lie that he perpetuates to save himself: nothing ever happened to him. When his seizures are triggered by stimuli that resurface memories of the past, he winds up in the hospital again and again. Donning a metaphorical blindfold to deny the truth of his trauma, he attempts to convince the medical staff of the same lie.

“When the doctor asked me about it in a concerned tone, I trembled and apologized at first. I repeatedly said that I was sorry. It was all my fault. Please let me forget all about it. Then, I tried to pretend nothing had happened. I didn’t remember anything.” — JiMin, 11 May Year 22. The Notes 1.

After HoSeok and his friends help break him out of the hospital (15 May Year 22, The Notes 1), JiMin recognizes that in order to keep his freedom, he must prove both to his family and to himself that he is “okay” and will not relapse. 

“I had to return to the Grass Flower Arboretum. I had to stop lying about not remembering what I’d seen there. It was time to stop hiding in the hospital and put an end to my seizures. To do that, I had to go back there. But, for days, I went to the shuttle bus stop and failed to get on the bus.

After I watched the third bus of the day pull away, YoonGi suddenly appeared and plunked down next to me. … Then he asked what I was doing here. I kept my head bent low and kicked the ground with the toe of my sneaker. I was sitting there because I didn’t have courage. I wanted to pretend that I was OK now, that I knew enough, and that I could easily overcome this. But I was afraid. I was afraid of not knowing what I was about to face, whether I would be able to endure it, and whether I would have a seizure again.

… The bus stopped and the door opened. The driver stared at me. I asked YoonGi. ‘Will you go with me?’” — JiMin, 19 May Year 22. The Notes 1.

The drummer boy in ON may represent, in part, JiMin’s childhood: his real younger self, the one who experienced an event with long-reaching, traumatic consequences, just as the drummer boy marched into the horrors of war. User @cinnaminsvga​ points out that the boy’s striped pants (and I will add, shaved head) may refer to the common style of uniform assigned in Holocaust concentration camps, drawing in additional themes of imprisonment and persecution. In JiMin’s case, the violence against his true identity is committed by himself, in the attempted act of self-preservation, and his family, in turning a blind eye and forcing his hospitalization.

JiMin has spent years of his life denying the truth of what happened in the arboretum, hiding behind a blindfold of denial and lies. Embarking on the arboretum shuttle with YoonGi marks his first conscious effort to remove that blindfold. This is paralleled by his interaction with ON’s drummer boy. For the first time, he reaches out to that boy of his past, in a striking visual homage to Blood, Sweat, & Tears. Instead of running away, he chooses to face the reality of his trauma, in the hope of walking a new path toward acceptance and healing. 

Later events in the Notes and BU films remind us that the path to recovery is not easy or straightforward. It is riddled with pitfalls and switchbacks, challenges and missteps that threaten to drag oneself into relapse. When JiMin accidentally stumbles into his dance studio partner and they fall, the sight of his own blood once again triggers him.

“The blood reminded me of the Grass Flower Arboretum. I felt suffocated. I couldn’t remember how I got up, ran out of the practice room, and made it to the restroom. I scrubbed and washed the scrape like crazy, becoming more and more frightened at seeing the blood sucked down the drain. I thought I’d overcome this. I thought I was OK. But I wasn’t. I had to flee. I had to wash it off. I had to look the other way. 

… On that day, I’d run away from the Grass Flower Arboretum. My body was covered with mud that looked like blood. I hadn’t grown up one bit from that little eight-year-old kid.” — JiMin, 4 July Year 22. The Notes 1.

The road to the future will be paved with hardship and setbacks for JiMin. However, the act of reaching toward the drummer boy in ON may further represent the acceptance that he has more challenges to overcome. Although the young age of military drummers has been exaggerated and romanticized over the years, their role is uncontested: drums helped the formations march in step, and a language of rudiments (basic rhythmic patterns) relayed commands from officers to soldiers. Despite the danger to their lives, they accompanied the troops to war and played on the battlefield. JiMin’s partnership with the drummer boy in ON signifies his willingness to brave the conflicts, personal and external, ahead. Though his private battles to survive his trauma are far from over, if he does not surrender again to denial, he will one day see light breaking through the storm.

The candle girls + YoonGi

In ON, YoonGi is connected with not just one child, but an entire congregation. The scene appears as a kind of candlelight vigil or memorial service, likely composed of girls because all the men and boys have been summoned to the war. Fire has been one of the most significant, recurring elements since the very beginning of BU content, especially in association with YoonGi, so the choice of imagery is impossible to miss. Fire is the root of his obsessions, the heart of his torment, the means to his self-destruction.

YoonGi has never truly come to terms with his mother's death, locking away the suspicion that she was responsible for setting the fire that took her life. His love for music is bound by the painful memories of his mother and the piano. Love and pain are inextricable. His mother's love for him and for music were not enough to save her life. Again and again, in countless timelines, he plays out that same act of self-violence, throwing himself into the flames.

“I tried to imagine what was going on in YoonGi’s head. Once, I followed him secretly for hours. His footsteps were insecure and unpredictable. He staggered through the night streets and tried to fling himself into the fire. He sometimes squatted on the ground and listened to music that flowed out of somewhere inside an underground shopping arcade. … The suffering he must have endured, going from one extreme to the other, were beyond my imagination. All I could do was watch him stagger on.” — SeokJin, 2 May Year 22. The Notes 1.

Like TaeHyung, YoonGi attempts to hide the true depths of his despair from his group of friends: the wildly uncontrolled mood swings from fits of creative passion to destructive tendencies of alcoholism and self-harm. Though he finds a kindred spirit in JungKook, his own internal conflicts and fears repeatedly force him away when they get too close. When they are reunited physically at key moments throughout the BU narrative, he cannot bridge the emotional gap. YoonGi’s mother abandoned him to an inheritance of grief and mental health struggles, neither of which he is capable of working through alone. But he recognizes that his self-destructive habits spin out of control, and he does not want to inflict that pain upon others through their closeness.

“I turned my eyes away. I didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s life. I didn’t want to try to console someone who was lonely. I didn’t want to be important for someone. I wasn’t sure I could protect that someone till the end. I wasn’t confident I could stand by that someone till the end. I didn’t want to hurt that someone. I didn’t want to get hurt. It’s hard enough for us to try to save ourselves when the last moment comes, let alone someone else.” — YoonGi, 7 April Year 22. The Notes 1.

“‘Why didn’t you go see JungKook? Don’t you know what you mean to him?’ Of course I knew. Maybe that was why I couldn’t go into his room. I was distorted and thorny. Anyone who tried to come near me was bound to get hurt.

… I’d inflicted pain on others as I suffered greater pain. I looked away from their wounds. I didn’t want to take any responsibility. I didn’t want to get involved. That was who I was.” — YoonGi, 25 July Year 22. The Notes 1.

YoonGi is eventually driven to understand that he cannot survive alone. When he fears that he pushes away HoSeok, the “one who always pave[s] the way for [him] to come back no matter how far astray” he has gone (28 July Year 22, The Notes 1), for good this time, HoSeok later texts him privately to ask if he is okay. In between those two points of contact, YoonGi discovers a new purpose for living: completing the melody that has nearly driven him to madness, as it haunts him across many parallel timelines in tantalizing and ungraspable fragments. 

“I completed the piece several days ago. I changed the version I sent to HoSeok a few more times. I gave it the title ‘Hope.’ To be honest, the title didn’t actually match the piece. It contained my fear, cowardice, and inferiority. It contained all the moments I tried to avoid, get away from, and reprimanded myself for. But I couldn’t think of any other word that could encompass it all.” — YoonGi, 30 August Year 22. The Notes 1.

In sharing this musical representation of his innermost self, YoonGi opens himself to vulnerability. This is a step forward in accepting the turmoil of his heart and allowing others inside to see his true self, too. It is particularly striking to see YoonGi, who has forbidden himself emotional proximity to others for so long, emerging from isolation to participate in ON’s candlelight service. Linking him to a community of children, rather than the solo partners of TaeHyung and JiMin, signifies his progress in growing beyond the shadows of his past and exploring new ways to manage his grief. Even the cuts to him alone in this sacred, ceremonial space reflect his development. He is not torn by anger or despair, but given to reflection. He does not stare obsessively into the flames, but instead gazes outward at a beam of sunlight. Despite the somber undertones, this scene in ON is one of the rare instances of YoonGi associated with fire in a positive light: not one of violence and self-destruction, but reflection and healing through the allowance of both private and shared grief. 

Bonus: HoSeok + the bag girl

While all seven characters of the BU narrative are influenced by their pasts, the ones whose lives are most acutely shaped by the ongoing traumas and conflicts that are rooted in their youths are the characters reflected here: TaeHyung, JiMin, YoonGi. And, I am inclined to say at first pass, HoSeok. Like TaeHyung, he was abandoned by his mother, but this left him without any family and he was consigned to an orphanage. He carries the weight of his abandonment with him into adulthood, influencing multiple aspects of his health and manifesting an unconscious obsession with seeing his mother in other women.

So where is his child representation in the ON video? It is entirely plausible that another pairing included was not included for timing reasons. Another possible reason is that he has made considerable progress in his personal growth by the end of the Notes 1, and therefore the shackles of his past have loosened: he confesses to JiMin that his narcolepsy is fake (16 May Year 22, The Notes 1) and in later months recognizes the problematic nature of seeing his mother, whose face he can no longer remember, in other women in his life, strangers and friends alike. 

That being said, the presence of the girl with the bright yellow bag in the shot of everyone looking beyond the wall (included in the first photoset) might be a coincidence… or it might be a small nod to the shoulder bag carried on tour by the real-life HoSeok and gifted to a fan during the New York Citi Field performance in October 2018. The one in ON is not red (although the girl standing next to her has one with red embellishments), but the yellow is a surprising pop of color amid the subdued color palette in the rest of the shot. She does not stand near HoSeok (although neither does the drummer boy near JiMin)... But perhaps, if we are inclined to read into it, we may find a dash of hope in the separation of this mother/child reference, as HoSeok gazes forward with the others at the opportunities and dreams promised by the future.

------------------------------------------------

If you made it this far, I sincerely thank you for coming on this little journey with me. Please do not repost this analysis on other platforms. If you have any questions, comments, or wild theories of your own… send them my way! I would love to hear from you. -- wings

Added Note: This was written before I read actress Rina Johnson’s statement about playing the role of Taehyung’s sister and prior to the release of the ON behind-the-scenes video.

#bts on #bts theories #bts analysis #hyyh #taehyung #jimin #yoongi #hoseok #the shadow like me #unconfirmed hyyh #bts on mv #bts the notes #bts the notes 1 #bts universe #bts themes #cinematography #tw: suicide #tw: abuse #tw: trauma #tw: blood

[axelsagewrites]

Magnus Bane*Trial

Ship(s): Magnus X Reader

Request?: Nope

Warnings?: Nada

Type: Angst, fluff (I think. Its kinda sad)

Masterlist HERE

Wattpad HERE

“Hungry?” Louise sat next to me on the pavement under the bridge. She held out a breakfast bar with a smirk.

“I’m fine,” I shrug, going back to my book.

She rolls her eyes and tosses it onto my book, “Don’t worry, I grabbed two,” She pulled another out from her coat pocket. “Besides you know I’d always share,”

“That’s what worries me,” I said, putting a bookmark in my page and shutting the book. Putting the book in my backpack along with everything else I owned, I opened the breakfast bar, “Cheers,” we clinked our bars like champagne glasses.

My mind jumped back to the last time I had champagne. I was in Paris, France, in 1912. it was just before the war, luckily, we’d left France just before to visit friends in Indonesia. Magnus and I never cared for the high-class company of Paris, but we cared deeply for the food and drink. It must’ve been a birthday, maybe an engagement, not that we cared.

“You alright?” Louise snapped me from my daze.

“Yeah fine,” I gave a weak smile, turning to the breakfast bar. Despite how hungry I was I picked off small bites. Make it last longer. “We can’t do this forever,” I sighed.

Louise shrugged. “Well, its only a couple months till I’m 18. Then I’ll be able to get a place and you can stay with me,” she smiled. Louise was nice but naive. A runaway in the same torn coat from when she was 15. There was no point telling her to go home. By the sounds of things, the street was safer than her home.

“What about money? They’ll want to prove you have a job and you’ve got savings,”

Her face screwed up, “You worry too much. Look we’ll figure it out. How’d you even know all this?” I shrugged. “How old even are you?”

“17, same as you,” I lied like second nature. I’d stopped aging around 18, 19 but being underage gives me a reason to be homeless. Well, not technically homeless, I own a couple different homes I just can’t live there. The clave would find me. “Look I’m a pessimist. You know this,”

“Well, what I also know is that I want more than a breakfast bar. Lest go diving,” She grinned, jumping up and holding out a hand.

I took it and let her haul me up, “New day, another crime, yay,” I rolled my eyes.

“How’d you think I got the breakfast bars?” she rolled her eyes, “Besides when I’m a big shot with an even bigger paycheck I’ll come back and make it right again,”

We had the same routine every day. Louise apparently ‘perfected’ its last year. This way we got to eat every day. I relocate every couple of years or so and start a new cycle to avoid questions. The claves less likely to find me and people don’t realise I’m not aging. I’d come to Glasgow a couple months back and met Louise. She ‘took me under her wing’ as a runaway, not realising I’d been doing this since 1939.

The dive was a way to eat or get money. Louise walked up to a bin, me trying to shield her from view, and fished out a tub of thrown away food. Chips, burgers, nachos, something like that. Then you deliberately walk into someone and make it look like an accident then, crash!

Louise fell to the floor, dropping the chips everywhere. The businessman on the phone checked his suit then looked at Louise. I helped pick her up, “What’s your problem mate?” I asked, loudly to draw a slight crowd. “Like knocking little girls down?” Louise looked young and as thin as a twig so the small crowd of 5 or so looked annoyed.

His face flushed, “Are you okay?” he took the phone away from his ear for a brief second.

“It's okay,” Louise said, a fake waver in her voice, “I wasn’t that hungry anyway,” A woman tutted him and another gave him a pointed look. “Honest,” Louise was selling it.

And the man was paying. He fished out a couple notes and put them in her hand, “Go get another one,” he said, rushing off to finish his call.

The crowd dispersed soon after and as they were out of earshot Louise turned to me, “Sweet,” she grinned holding up two £5. I rolled my eyes and followed her to get our own food. If she knew about my world, the magic I had, we wouldn’t need to do this. But I can’t let her know I’m a warlock. No one can.

Louise and I took shifts sleeping. We both looked like easy targets, even though I wasn’t, and it meant we could keep a fire going longer. As she slept, I looked through my bag for my journal. The bag had the most important things I owned. Even if everything else was stolen I’d be okay if I had my journal.

I was over 300 years old. For all the stories I do have there are others I’ve just forgotten. Every time I had a new story, I wanted to remember I’d write in down. I have tons of journals in one of my homes, but this was the most important, the one I grabbed before the clave came.

If something big was happening I’d get a special journal. One of my special journals was Magnus. A couple of journals are dedicated to people, lovers, friends, family, a book of one-night stands (I’m old, don’t judge). Magnus journal was the one I cared about

Every little thing was in it; when we met, first dates, first fight, moving in, and the stories. I have tons of stories, some romantic, some funny, some once in a lifetime sort of experience. He’d always intrigued me. I started the journal the day after I met him, not able to get him out of my head.

I flicked through the pages, reading the stories and looking through the mementos. I’m sappy I know, but I had pressed flowers from bouquets he’d gotten me, train tickets, and a couple love letters. I had more love letters at home but these three were important ones. I miss him.

It’s all the claves fault.

A warlock’s word means nothing to them. Not in life, court, or death. I’d never do the things they said I did. Never. They accused me of rituals I couldn’t pronounce the names of and casting spells I’d never even though possible.

Mundane have serial killers and sure they’re scary but a warlock serial killer is worse. Spells, potions, rituals, demons, an extensive list of ways to kill and not be detected. Did it matter I had alibied? No. did it matter I didn’t have to resources to do it? No. did its mater I had no motive? No. I was a warlock and that was motive enough.

The trial began in 1937. Technically it lasts till today. It began with an arrest for using magic in front of a mundane but then the charges pilled on. Originally, they kept me in the silent city but high warlocks, including Magnus, that I knew were able to pull strings to get me on house arrest.

Magnus stayed with me during this time till July 1939. He went to the shops for me and the shadowhunters patrolling my house didn’t let him back in. they didn’t even tell me for 2 weeks where he’d gone.

August rolled around and I was alone. I was able to get a weekly visitor after apparently an explosive argument between Ragnor Fell and the inquisitor. Normally it was Magnus who would bring me letters from my friends for me to read once he left. one night there was a knock at my door.

Magnus came every Thursday at 10am. It was 3am on a Saturday. I opened the door and as soon as I did Ragnor pushed in and shut it, “Get a bag and get ready to run,”

“What?” I yawned, never being up at this time.

“They’re coming for you. They’ve had secret trials without any Downworlders, and the silent brothers are coming. Rodrick heard rumours about it, but he just called me. We need to leave,”

“But I haven’t done anything!”

“Do you think they care!?” He yelled, “They’re raiding this place is 20 minutes. Get a bag, grab some cash, and get moving,”

“What about the barrier? The spells?”

Ragnor rolled his eyes, “How do you think I’m here? We can only hold it for so long. Get moving or we’ll all go down,”

I nodded and did as I was told. Despite everything, I was glad to go. I’m starting to hate this house. I slung my bag over my shoulder and looked at Ragnor. “What about Magnus?”

Ragnor looked down, “He asked me to come. Magnus is a smart man, don’t tell him I said that. No matter what you cannot go back to him,” I went to speak but he continued, “The clave maybe stupid but not that much. They’ll find you and this will be for nothing. We need to go,”

I nodded and followed him out. “Follow me,” he said. We ran and ran and ran. As we got over a hill, we could hear the noise of a portal forming somewhere near, “That isn’t us!” Ragnor said and we sped up.

At the bottom of the hill was a portal. Luckily it was downhill. As I went to run through the portal, I could see something through the portal. Warlocks, with there hands in the air as if they were casting a spell. I could recognise all of them. I saw Magnus. He didn’t see me. I ran through the portal with Ragnor, but I came out alone.

The tears on my face were quickly wiped away when I heard footsteps. Sure, there were a ton of homeless people nearby but none of there shoes sounded like heels. I squinted to see the figure turn onto the pavement leading to us.

A tall, lean, person stood there, looking at a map? Who uses a map? As I looked closer, I saw he wasn’t holding the map. It was floating there.

My stomach flipped and my breathing was faster than ever before. There was a reason I stayed with mundanes. The clave wanted me, they put out wanted alerts everywhere with money on them. My first week on the street I got ratted out and narrowly escaped.

World war 2 was a curse and a blessing. The mundane world was in chaos. Shadowhunters could put out fake wanted warnings out to mundanes with different names but the same face. No one cared in 1940.

After ww2 the clave had lost track of me. Last time I saw a shadowhunter was 1944. They wanted to avoid the war as well. Downworlders I saw often but they didn’t see me. I pretended to be mundane and they never looked twice.

When the figure began walking down the pavement, filled with street sleepers, he began looking at everyone’s faces. Slowly, I began to stand up. As he crouched to look at someone I bolted, bag in hand.

I heard him chase after me. The sound of feet slapping the pavement and wind rushing past me. I managed to get my bag on my back. I knew Glasgow. I could do this.

Public, I needed to be in public. It was a Sunday night though, so the regular drunks were few and hardly any cars lit up the street. Before the streets, I hadn’t been very fast. They made me fast.

Eventually, I turned a corner stopped, needing a breath, and I couldn’t see him. The journal was still tightly grasped in my hand. As I caught my breath, I quickly glanced through it and saw the letters had fallen out. They could be anywhere.

Taking a few deep breaths, I looked around the corner. I walked back onto the pavement and looked down it. I couldn’t see any. I’d have to retrace my path. But what if he was there.

I double-checked my journal, hoping to see one. No. I sighed and looked up to only see the man running around the corner, letters in his hand.

I wanted to cry. It took a couple seconds for me to turn and run but I’d been on my feet all day and I was tired. “(Y/N)!!” They cried after me.

Despite all the warnings, despite what everyone says, I looked over my shoulder. The streetlights lit him up. A tall lean man with spiky black hair, half unbuttoned red shirt, and too much jewellery for my liking. Magnus?

My look caused me to trip. As I hit the floor, I went to get back up, but he was by my side. “(Y/N), it’s me I- “

“You can’t be here,” I scrambled to get away, “It's not safe. The clave. If they- “

“(Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N)!” He tried to cut me off but eventually just grabbed my arms. My breathing was heavy, and my eyes were locked on his, “I’m here. The clave dropped the charges,”

“What?” I asked.

“0There was new evidence. I never stopped trying to prove your innocence. We proved it. They dropped the charges 13 years ago. You can come home,” Magnus pulled me into a hug.

On our knees, on the wet pavement in Glasgow, I hugged Magnus for the first time in decades. “I missed you so much,” I whispered as I buried my head into his neck. I felt his tears on me, but I didn’t care, “13 years. I could’ve come home,”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Magnus said, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,”

#shadow #shadowhunters #shadowhunter cast #shadowhunter smut #shadowhunters imagine #tmi #tmi imagine #the mortal instruments #the mortal instruments imagine #magnus #Magnus Bane #MagnusBane #magnus bane one shot #magnus bane imagine #magnus bane x reader #bane #bane x reader #bane imagine

[sadlittlenerdking]

That Which Binds

The Magicians

Queliot 

Word count: Holy shit clocking in at 5.1k

Summary: canon compliant up to 3x05 and then it goes super au. Quentin and Eliot love each other, but there’s a wedding. Don’t we all just want that happy new beginning?

He keeps expecting the doors to the throne room to burst open and for Quentin to stand there, huffing and puffing as he yells, “Stop the wedding!”

But Eliot says I do, slow and cautious, with his eyes locked on the door rather than his soon to be husband.

Idri squeezes his hand and pulls him closer, gazes at him in the way Eliot just wishes Quentin would allow himself to. It’s not even sweet, not really. Maybe it’s loving. But Eliot can’t be assed to care. Isn’t sure he could even identify if he did care. “I do.”

The doors remain shut as the audience applauds their royal marriage. Hurrah. Eliot forces a grin as he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Idri’s lips. Ignores the pounding in his chest that resembles something shattering inside him. They turn to the audience, and bow.

Fillory and Loria are united.

Eliot's eyes flit across the room and meet Margo’s. Her jaw is set, and before he can even offer a nod in her direction, she’s storming out of the throne room. Maybe she’s off to kill Quentin. Part of him is pleased at the idea. But the dumber part . . . God. The idiotic part of him is still hopeful the doors will smash open, and Quentin’s just late. Late is okay. Late means he tried but something stopped him.

Late means he cares.

It almost feels as if he’s underwater as they make their way across the dance floor. The sounds of the music pump through him, but they’re far off and fuzzy, as Idri pulls him close and smiles into Eliot’s jaw, whispering dirty little nothings that Eliot would have enjoyed in another life, Eliot keeps his eyes locked on the doors. Before the alternate timeline this would have been perfect. This would have been everything. After he and Quentin walked through the clock and lived their lives—after they formed a family—Eliot honestly doubts anything will ever amount to even a fraction of what he and Quentin had. But, he gets to have sex with someone that actually arouses him. What a fucking prize.

In the past, it would have been.

He closes his eyes and whispers back to Idri, pretends to be a loving husband, talks about perfect wedding planning and gorgeous center pieces. How happy he is. Even still, though, every time he’s spun or they turn, behind his eyelids he can still sense the formidable structure of heavy wooden doors that remain closed.

He was so sure. Quentin seemed to finally understand what was going on with that giant overthinking brain of his. It seemed like he was finally willing to admit it. What he felt in the past life—what happened after Eliot died. He’d started opening up. His feelings were more on his sleeve than tucked away in his messenger bag. He’d smiled at Eliot every time he entered a room, the way he used to look at Alice. He’d held his hand beneath the dinner table. He’d been so openly and blatantly jealous when Idri proposed their nuptials resume.

Fuck. He’d even kissed Eliot not even twelve hours ago.

Every kiss, Eliot could count all the important ones on one hand, every single one had been Quentin kissing Eliot. Last night, he’d practically shoved Eliot up against the tree and kissed him like it would replace the words he couldn’t get out past his stuttering.

Why didn’t he come?

Why didn’t he stop the wedding?

Why does Eliot keep letting himself get hurt when it comes to Quentin Coldwater?

He sighs, deep, and opens his eyes. It’s because he loves him. From the moment he lost his words when Quentin stumbled up to him that first day; to the day he died in Past Fillory. Even now. After Quentin continues to do everything but choose him.

All Eliot’s ever done is choose Quentin. Drunk, stoned, or even as a clay version of himself. Quentin runs through Eliot’s blood. It’s like the great cock said: they’re brothers of the heart. Quentin holds Eliot’s heart, and he squeezes and he squeezes until it practically maims Eliot. Over and over again, until all that’s left is dust. And then Eliot’s heart rejuvenates, and the whole cycle starts up again.

And the worst part is Quentin doesn’t even realize it. Doesn’t realize just what he’d give up if it meant another stolen kiss beneath a hidden tree at the edge of the castles property line. If it meant watching him with their grandchildren one more time. If it meant...

If it meant the man holding him right now were him. Idri is a wonderful man and will no doubt be a fantastic husband. But.

Eliot’s been, for all intents and purpose, married to the man he loves already. And he’s already in one unhappy marriage.

One unwanted marriage.

And now here he is with another.

He’d been so certain that Quentin would stop the wedding.

Why hadn’t he?

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He frowns, turning with the tune of the music, “Julia?” He asks, stopping, “What’s wrong?” She opens her mouth to say something but stops, glancing at Idri where he still has his hands on Eliot’s waist. “What’s going on?” Eliot shrugs away from Idri, “Excuse us,” he mutters, but he’s already dipping away before Idri can respond, “Why do you look like death warmed over?” It’s true. She’s clammy, her clothes are disheveled, and if the smell emanating off of her is anything to go by—she may actually be death warmed over.

“You need to come with me. Back to Earth.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?” He asks, “I’m not sure you’re aware, but this is my wedding,” He outstretches his arms to emphasize the point. Part of him wants to scream at her. She’s Quentin’s real best friend, isn’t she? She could explain why he’s such a fucking bastard. “That I have very carefully, and with an immense amount of effort planned—“

“It’s Quentin.”

Eliot pushes his shoulders back and lifts his chin. Of course it is. It’s always Quentin. Quentin is Eliot’s life. Quentin who didn’t care enough to stop the wedding. “You mean the Quentin that decided not to come to my wedding?”

She makes a face, unimpressed, “He couldn’t.”

Two can play at that game. Eliot crosses his arm, doubly unimpressed. “Oh? Enlighten me. I’d love to hear his excuse for this one—“

“He almost died. Actually—he did die.” She shrugs a shoulder, “I brought him back.” Jesus—his heart can’t even figure out whether or not to crash out of his chest or if everything’s okay. Talk about emotional fucking whiplash. He’s torn between wanting to rip her hair out of her scalp and hugging her.

She did bring him back. Maybe no hair pulling. For now. “From the dead?”

“From the dead, Yeah. Are you coming or not?”

He considers it, relaxing his shoulders. He tries to tell himself that it’s okay. Quentin’s not dead. Anymore. God, when did magic get so fucking complicated? “How did he—“

“The Neitherlands. We found another portal and—we were attacked. He was shot with a fucking arrow. The cannibals were hungry or something. I don’t care, to be honest.”

Eliot swallows, thick, and forces himself not to imagine sharp arrows piercing through Quentin’s fragile little body. Oh, but there they are. Like tiny little needles at his brain. “How did you—,” His voice cracks and he looks away from her. Cant take whatever signature Julia look she’s giving him. “How?” He tries again.

“Does that really matter? He’s alive, but he keeps asking for you.”

He clenches his jaw and nods, “Let’s go.” Glancing back across the dance floor, where his new husband is talking with Tick, Eliot decides its probably for the best if he doesn’t announce that he’s leaving. “Out the back,” He adds, nodding towards a door separate from the rest of the room.

They make it out without too many interruptions, and back to the neitherlands in near record time. “Aren’t the fountains frozen?”

She nods. “But not when I touch them.” And as if to prove her point, she leans forward and delicately places a hand overtop the frozen water. And it all starts moving again, shimmering in the fountain as if it’d never been frozen in the first place. She starts to move over the water, “Come on.”

He looks up from the water at her. “How are—“

“I’m a goddess, apparently. It’s not really the subject at hand. Can you just—“

Eliot sighs, so much of his life is unexplained. He’s learned by now to just roll with the punches no matter how banged up he gets. So he steps over the side of the fountain and dives in.

**

Quentin’s lying on one of the couches, hand tossed over his eyes, chest heaving like he’s in a ridiculous amount of pain. “Why is—“

Julia shakes her head and rushes to his side, dropping something to the ground beside him, “Come on, Q,” She says, soft, “Wake up.” Oh.

Nightmares.

Quentin jerks awake, hand slamming into the side of the couch with a soft thump. He flinches as his other hand goes to wrap around his stomach. That must be where the arrow hit him. Eliot stands at the edge of the living room, unsure of what he’s expected to do, other than watch. And wonder.

Had Quentin been coming to stop the wedding after all?

Or was something more important?

When Quentin calms down, he seems to finally realize he and Julia aren’t alone, as his gaze slowly rakes up Eliot’s body, from his shoes all the way up to his face. “Eliot,” He breathes. His voice is even hoarse. God, all Eliot wants to do is wrap him up and never let go. Hang onto him and keep him from ever getting hurt again. He starts to push up from the couch, but Julia puts a hand on his chest to hold him down. “You’re not dead but you’re not fully healed. Don’t try to get up.”

“But—“

“Q, I don’t even know how I saved you the first time. Don’t ask me to risk not being able to do it a second time.” Quentin sighs, nodding silently as Julia stands up and points a finger at Eliot. “I’m going to leave alone with him, but if he dies while I’m gone—“

“Like I would let anything bad happen to him,” Eliot retorts, tone a little more biting than he intended. She may have brought him back, but she was there . . .

“Good.” She turns around and walks out of the living room without another word and Eliot turns his attention on Quentin.

God, what is he even going to say to him? I’m sorry I hated you for not coming to the wedding when you were dying? I’m sorry I kept thinking about how much harm you bring to me instead of all the good? How cou—

“You’re thinking louder than me,” Quentin muses, “That’s. That’s a feat.”

Eliot can’t help it, he chuckles before moving to sit on the edge of the coffee table. And when Quentin reaches out his hand, he doesn’t hesitate to lace their fingers together. “You are the reigning champion of overthinking,” He murmurs, as he looks down on their hands. It’s like they were made to fit like this. Idri’s hands are large, almost as large as Eliot's, which makes hand holding clunky and awkward. But Quentin’s are just a little smaller, calloused and warm and the perfect fucking size to fit in Eliot’s.

Quentin heaves a sigh, and Eliot turns his eyes up to his face. He’s pale. A little clammy. “I missed it, didn’t I?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper. “The wedding?” Eliot opens his mouth to say it’s okay, but Quentin squeezes his hand and barrels on, “My chance.”

And Eliot swears his heart stops in his chest. “What?”

Quentin makes a face, turning his eyes up towards the ceiling. His jaw trembles. “I had a plan. I was— I was going to fix this. Break down the doors and beg you not to marry him. I just—,” He pauses, turning his attention back to Eliot, eyes glistening. “Eliot, I’m so sorry I realized too late. I— I should have realized. I shouldn’t have been so afraid back then. We raised a child—we. We were perfect. Together. And I—i was scared. And I had the chance to—to maybe make it right. But I fucked up and got shot by a fucking flying arrow and—“ He breaks off with a shake of his head.

Eliot watches him for a few long moments, heart racing.

Fuck.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Come on Eliot, you can hold it in. Don’t cry. Don't—

“El . . .”

Fuck.

He pulls his hand away to wipe at the tears welling up on his eyelashes. “I’m—“

Quentin reaches up and grabs his hand again, pulling it back to him, right over his chest and holding onto it with both hands. “I swear I wanted to be there, Eliot. I—I just needed a plan. And I had one.”

“A plan wouldn’t unite two nations, Q. There’s nothing you could have done.” It’s true. Even if Quentin had burst through the throne room doors and screamed, ‘Stop the wedding!’ at the top of his lungs, it wouldn’t have changed anything. The wedding wasn’t about love. The wedding was about uniting two nations. Making their kingdoms stronger. Actually stopping the wedding probably would have resulted in a war. Especially after Margo accused Ess of an attempted assassination and threw him in the dungeon without so much as an hasta la vista.

“Margo was going to marry Ess,” Quentin says. “She—I talked to her about it after I kissed you. She was going to marry Ess. I just had to show up and stop the wedding, and she was going to do the rest. But I fucked up,” He makes a sound disturbingly similar to a whimper, “I finally stop overthinking and get shot with an arrow because of it. I’m so sorry, El. I’m so, so—“

Eliot swoops forward and presses his lips to Quentin’s temple. “It’s okay,” He whispers into the skin, “It’s okay. This isn't your fault—“

“Stop that.”

“What?”

Quentin pushes him away, it’s gentle but it still stings. “Every time I fuck up, you—“

“I what?”

“You forgive me.”

Eliot shrugs a shoulder. “It’s usually not your fault.” Quentin raises an eyebrow, and okay. It usually is. Practically every bad thing after Quentin came to Brakebills has been Quentin’s fault. But, “That’s love,” Eliot murmurs, “I—“ He shrugs, because there’s no other way to put it. That’s what it is. He loves Quentin, for better or worse. “I can usually find a defense for everything you do.”

Even when it came to Quentin pushing him away after they got together in their past life.

“El…”

“We’re going to figure this out.”

“How? You can’t divorce—“

Eliot shrugs, pushing off the table to kneel by the couch and rest his forehead against Quentin’s. “I don’t know. But we will.” He pulls away just enough to look him in the eyes, “We always do, don’t we?” When his wife left him, they figured it out. When they had to raise a child, just them, they figured it out.

When they got stuck in the past trying to solve an impossible puzzle— they figured it out. Every problem that’s come their way, be it caused by Quentin or some stupid God being a dick, they figured it out. They always find a way. That’s who they are. They don’t give up, no matter how much they want to, because they have each other, and then depend on one another.

Now that he knows for sure, he’s not going to stop until he figures out a way to get out of this marriage and finally get a chance with Quentin. To finally get the life they deserve.

Just as he’s about to say as much, Margo crashes through the front door. How? He can’t even be bothered to ask.

“What the actual horse shitting fuck, Coldwater?” She screams as she storms into the living room. “What the fuck were you—“ She stops at the sight of Eliot, “El. Everyone’s looking for you back at the castle.” He’d figured as much. “But that’s not the point.” She turns her glare back on Quentin, “We had a plan you fucking overthinking, selfish weasel!”

“You shouldn’t have to marry someone you don't want to, Margo.”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to Eliot. “Honey, I’ve done it once. And he’s dead now. Do you really think I can’t handle Ess? He’s much easier to control. A little sex here and he’s done for the next three days. I’m not worried about him.” She turns her attention back on Quentin, eyes squinting accusingly. “Why do you look like shit?”

“He died.”

“I died.”

She stares at them for a few long beats before groaning, and looking up at the ceilings, “Can my friends please stop fucking dying?!” It really says something about the sorry state of their group that she doesn’t question how he’s still here if he’s dead.

They eventually make it back to Fillory. Margo’d had the key, which allowed her to get to Earth, but even still, time had once again moved a lot faster in Fillory than it had on Earth. The wedding decorations and guests have all disappeared. In fact, the only sign that anything that happened actually had happened, is the extra seat in the throne room for Idri. And many of Idri’s belongings in Eliot’s room. And, obviously, Idri, waiting for them is a big indicator.

“You’re back,” He says, though there’s no shock or even indignation. “Come, let’s talk.”

Eliot squeezes Quentin’s hand once before letting go and following after his husband. God. His husband. That’s somehow worse than him having to get used to saying his wife.

Wait, no.

No, it’s not.

They go out to the balcony in the throne room, and look out over Fillory. Neither of them say anything, not at first. Eliot, though he’ll never admit it, is too afraid to be the first one to speak. Too unsure of how to go about saying ’this wedding was a mistake and I hate that I went through with it and I hate that I can’t get out of it’ in a way that won’t send their two kingdoms into instant war.

Idri looks at him, thoughtful, and sighs. “The king. You love him.”

With a short, sardonic laugh, Eliot nods. “Yeah. I do.”

“And you’ve only just realized this?” When he doesn’t respond, it’s Idri’s turn to nod as he turns his gaze back on the sweeping view of the land surrounding the castle. “The wedding?”

“Obligation.” It’s the truth. There’s no point in lying anymore.

They go on in an uncomfortable silence as Eliot looks down at the ground beneath them, his arms crossed over the side of the balcony. “Tell me,” Idri says, finally, “Have you tried being with another, besides your wife, since magic disappeared?”

“Th—“ He cuts himself off. Because no, not in a world without magic. But in the past. Where there was magic. But technically Fen hadn’t been born yet. So, theoretically, it made sense that that night with Quentin was possible. They’d never really even thought to question how they’d done it. They were too busy, well, doing it. “No,” he settles for. Because how does he explain that they traveled through time, then didn’t, but still remembered everything that technically didn’t happen? Easy—he doesn’t.

“I did some research after it was clear you were probably not returning.”

Eliot frowns, turning to look at him, “I’ll always come back. Fillory is my home—“

“Returning to me, Eliot.”

“I’m—“

Idri holds up a hand. “Without magic, there are no spells or entanglements. No one thing binding two people together for as long as they live.” He smiles softly, almost sad, “Without a god, any spell he cast on the people of Fillory or the castle—it’s like it never existed. The world he created lives on. But the magic of it is gone.” He raises his eyebrows meaningfully and looks out over the grounds again. “I told you about my first love, when we first met. Love is not something one gives up. Not without a fight.”

Eliot takes a slow breath in, the words sinking in as the air settles in his lungs. No spell means no forced eternity. No spell means—

“W—what are you saying?”

Turning his head just slightly, to look at Eliot out of the corner of his eye, Idri asks, “Would your high queen willingly marry Prince Ess?” Each word is slow to settle. Slow to morph into something with meaning. Eliot can’t even think to answer. Can’t even begin to try to find the words to express his confusion and gratitude and god, the confusion is the strongest of them all.

“I—“

“Our kingdoms alliance is important,” Idri adds, turning to face him full on. “But forcing you into a marriage that will separate you from the person you love? I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t. I imagine the two of you have been through so much already to get you to this point. And, though, the idea of you and me sounds… explosively magnetic. I won’t ask you to make another sacrifice. Love is sacred. I wouldn’t ask you to give that up. Not when you don’t have to.”

As amazing as this all sounds, “We’re already married, though. Divorce doesn’t even exist here.”

“Divorce?”

“Exactly!”

“There’s a ceremony of sorts. No practitioner or anything required.” He looks down with a half smile and reaches into his pocket, “It’s quick, and simple.” He lifts his hand, and in it is the cloth that was wrapped around their wrists during the wedding. “Together, we must rip it in half. The bond will be broken because there’s no magic holding it together. And then, you’ll be free to be with the man you actually love.”

Eliot’s mouth falls open as he stares down at the cloth. Days of stressing and working up the courage to have this talk, and it’s all as simple as breaking a piece of cloth? Days of holding Quentin at arms length for fear of not being enough? And all they have to do is rip a cloth?

It can’t be that simple.

Their lives are not that simple.

“I don't understand why you’re doing this.”

Idri laughs, gently, closing his fist around the clothing, “Because nobody wants to be miserable for the rest of their life, when happiness is just a few steps away. But I need to be clear—we can only do this if our kingdoms are still united.”

“Margo and Ess.”

He nods. “Margo and Ess.”

That was part of their plan. And she thinks she can handle Ess. Thinks it’s not a big deal. But he can’t ask her. He can’t make her make that decision for him. Eventually she’ll come to resent him—

“I’ll do it.” What? He flips around, eyes wide as Margo stands in the doorway, blinking innocently with a knowing smirk on her lips. She rolls her eyes at him and nods at Idri. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry your infuriating, son,” She offers a shrug, “Maybe even teach him a thing or two about being a decent human being.”

“Bambi—“

She narrows her eyes at him, “El, sweetheart. You made a sacrifice once already for everyone when you married Fen. And you did it knowing you’d never be able to leave Fillory. You did that shit knowing you’d lose practically everyone and everything and any chance at a decent boner,” She takes two careful steps towards him and pokes him directly at the center of his chest, “It’s my turn to be the good guy. You’ve filled up your quota.” And in true Margo fashion, she doesn’t even allow him a chance to say no before she’s turning to Idri, “Alright, king sexy. Let’s rip up that cloth and get this marriage train on the tracks. I may need a new dress, though, my other one’s covered in blood.” She scrunches up her nose, “And maybe a new bed, as my now deceased husbands throat was slit by his mother while we were sleeping, and there’s a whole lot of blood stains.”

Idri smiles at her and opens his fist, offering the cloth to Eliot. “Shall we?”

“Don’t we need scissors or—or something?” Idri shakes both his head and the hand holding the cloth, “It’s—we can do it right here, right now?”

Idri glances back at Margo, “Do I have your word that you will marry Prince Ess?”

“Swear on everything important to me. Which is really just Eliot and Quentin. I’ll marry Ess.”

“Then yes,” He looks back at Eliot, “Right here, right now.”

“And how will people know—“

“I’m sure the marriage announcements will make it clear what’s happened, Eliot. Please,” He motions towards the cloth, “Don’t doubt your ability to be happy.”

Margo, less kindly, adds, “Seriously, El, if you don’t take that fucking cloth—“

Eliot reaches up, moving faster than he even knew he was capable, and Idri holds tight to his end as Eliot pulls at it with every fiber of strength in his body. The cloth rips almost too easily, and he falls backwards, crashing against the side of the balcony. His breath whooshes out of him as he collides with the wall, and something heavy lifts off his chest that he hadn’t even realized was there. He looks across the balcony at Idri, who seems to realize the same weight’s lifted, but he doesn’t seem as surprised.

Margo smiles sympathetically. “Happens when a vow is broken, El. I felt it when — well. You know that story already.” When her husbands throat was slit while she slept beside him. Yeah, he knows that story well enough.

Idri smiles at them. “Now that our business is concluded,” Eliot can’t help but notice that he’s also a little breathless, “Margo, we need to go speak to Ess. And Eliot . . . I believe you have good news to share.”

Margo scoffs, “Q and I were listening in on this whole thing. He knows everything already. He’s just waiting to be polite.” The ‘and to give Eliot the opportunity to change his mind’ goes unsaid.

There’s a small sigh and a quiet, indignant, “Damn it, Margo,” from just outside the doors, and then a sheepish Quentin peeking his head out with a guilty smile. “… Hi.”

Laughing, Margo presses a kiss to Quentin’s cheek with a quiet, “Don’t fuck it up!” And pulls Idri through the throne room and out of sight.

Quentin chews on his lower lip as he steps onto the balcony. He’s staring down at the ground in front of his feet, like he’s suddenly frightened of anything and everything Eliot might say. So Eliot breathes out through his nose, and huffs. “Well,” He says, “You’d better not miss the next wedding, or it’ll be horribly embarrassing.”

Quentin’s head jerks up, “What?”

“What, what?”

“No—El—what?”

“We’re obviously getting married.” He smirks down at him as he takes a single step closer, waiting for Quentin to make the next move. And Quentin does. He takes one step, as well, cautious and careful until Eliot moves again. And so the game goes until they’re standing inches apart, Quentin gazing up at him with those stupid doe eyes and his lower lip sucked into his mouth. “I can’t have you running off with some other debonair High King.”

His lower lip pops out of his mouth as he smiles and looks away, towards the throne room and back. A slight pink tints his cheeks. “I don’t know,” He says, moving in, closing the few inches between them, but still so far because he’s so god damned short. “You just got out of a relationship—“

Eliot’s hands move of their own accord, until he’s got one wrapped around the back of Quentin’s neck, and the other on his lower back, “Q,” He whispers, leaning down, so close he can feel Quentin’s breath on his eyelashes. “Shut up. And say you’ll marry me.”

He pretends to think about it for a moment, “I can’t do both of those things— it’s shut up or say yes. Which is it?”

“God, you’re a loser.”

Quentin grins up at him, his arms coming up to wrap around Eliot’s waist, “A loser you’re about to spend a second lifetime with.” The corners of his lips twitch as he unwinds one arm, to reach up and wipe at a tear from Eliot’s cheek. God, since when does he cry? And why is it happening without his knowledge or control? “Happy tears?”

Eliot lets out a small, choked up laugh and nods, “The first of the kind.”

“I mean you kind of sobbed when Rupert got his first girlfriend.”

Shaking his head, Eliot narrows his eyes, “You promised to never mention that.” But he can’t help the smile that follows the statement, and decides he can’t help leaning down to press his lips to Quentin’s, either. It hadn’t been too long ago that Quentin had pushed him up against a tree and kissed him like it was all he knew to do, but somehow it felt a lifetime ago. And then there was the kiss. The perfect kiss that actually was a lifetime ago.

Quentin pulls away, his thumb stroking the damp skin beneath Eliot’s eye. “Happy anniversary, Eliot.” The words that started it all.

“Get out of my head, Coldwater.”

Quentins quiet for a moment before he swallows audibly and leans up, on the balls of his feet, and says, right up against Eliot’s lips, “Never.”

He wonders for a moment, why he loves this man.

But then, he remembers a moment both lifetimes and yet only a few years ago, of a fresh faced, confused student, stumbling into his life, and staring up at him with big brown eyes, and a bag full of books. And he doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

They’re always been Quentin and Eliot. Even before they knew each others names. Some things are stronger than death and misery, and gods and magic. Some things are stronger than destiny.

Some things defy the odds.

They just happen to be one of those things.

And considering their outrageously terrible luck—“We’d better get married sooner rather than later.”

That’s one of those things Eliot doesn’t want to push.

Quentin laughs and pulls him in for another kiss.

#the magicians #queliot #quentin coldwater #eliot waugh #margo hanson #king idri #prince ess #riz writes