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clockwayswrites · 1 year

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Specter of Starlight - Part 1

Summary:

Tim meets a specter of a ghost on a roof. He doesn't know that, not at first. At first he just meets a friend. It's only later he becomes very, very scared for him.

Content warning:

While I promise a happy ending, this fic does not start out happy. The start of this fic deals with (mistaken) suicidal ideation. Neither character is, but the assumption is made and there's a lot of internal thoughts about running into someone on a ledge in the middle of the night and how to handle that. Proceed carefully, darlings.

Wc: 666 (coincidentally spooky)

_____

Sometimes a person on a roof was just a person on a roof— someone out to get some fresh air or distance or space. Sometimes a person on a roof was a tragedy waiting to happen. As protectors of the city, the Bats had to learn to tell the difference.

They tried to stop every time that they could, just in case, but when they were in the middle of a chase or attack they had to make a call. They all had choices that haunted them. They could only make the best guess based on what they knew. Obvious apartment complexes, lower buildings, people on the phone or smoking, in the middle of the roof— if they didn’t have the time, those were usually safe to pass on. Tonight it was an office building, several stories high, a person sitting on the edge of the building as silent and still as the stone gargoyle they were next to. Tonight Tim wasn’t going to risk passing by. At least the figure was looking up and not down. Maybe it was okay. Please be okay. Tim landed lightly, almost soundlessly, on the roof. Still, he saw the shoulders of the person stiffen ever so slightly. They had heard him. Tim let the toe of his boot catch purposefully on the aggregate of the roof— let himself be obvious in his presence. He went kept wide. It was far enough away not to be a threat (that was a lie, Tim would always be a threat) but close enough that at this height he would have time to catch the person if they jumped. With ease, Tim hopped up onto the ledge and let his feet dangle out over the open air. For him the height was comforting, an old friend. “What brings you all the way up here?” Don’t ask them if they’re going to jump. Don’t ask them if they’re that far gone. Don’t cement the idea in their mind. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim took in what details he could in dim light. Dark hair— black likely but possibly dark brown. Late teens likely, early twenties if they were a late bloomer. Which was possible. They’re far too lean— lean enough to be pushing into gaunt. Bright blue eyes flicked to look at Tim and then back up to the sky. “Stargazing.” Tim stared up at the cloud cover that was so thick not a bit of starlight sneaked through. They snorted, as if reading Tim’s mind. “Yeah, it’s not being very cooperative.” There’s a subtle drawl to their voice. Midwest accent, Tim’s subconscious supplies, not a Gotham native. Not even someone who’s been here long enough to lose the accent. Just long enough to be up on a roof in the middle of the night. Their voice is almost lost in the night air even though it’s still as death. There’s not a single breeze to snatch their words away, but the voice is still just a little hard to hear. “I don’t think you’re going to be in luck tonight,” Tim replied. “Lady Gotham isn’t known to be accommodating.” They gave a long hum at that, clearly thinking something over. “Guess I’m not really stargazing then.” “So what would you say you’re doing?” Tim tried to keep his voice casual. They gave a little shrug, eyes still glued to the murky sky. “Just… wondering it must be like… to die without getting to see the stars one last time.” Tim jolted towards them instinctively, his hands gripped white knuckled tight on the ledge to avoid reaching out. Don’t do anything that might give them a reason to jump. The stranger glanced at Tim again. A crooked smile graced their lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Tim wants to say he’s not scared. It would be a lie. “I’m not up here to jump, I promise. I very much want to live.” Tim wanted desperately to believe that.

_____

AN: Finally wrote the start of this last night when I couldn't sleep. I gave it a rough polish so here it is! I don't know if I'll post all of it on tumblr, as I think I want to play around with chapter pacing for effect, but have this here at least. (Also I cannot tell you how many times I wrote Tim as TIme.) As always, stay delightful.

@michealawithana | @skulld3mort-1fan | @legowerewolf | @tsukihimeyfan | @bahfev

#dp x dc #danny fenton #tim drake #brain dead #dead tired #i think those are both the ship names #yes?#tim/danny #tw sui ideation #tw suicidal ideation #not really but it's feared #let me know if there needs to be more cw tags #specter of starlight

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five-rivers · 4 years

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Darkness/Poison

This is part of the ‘Doorways’ series (aka Danny is an eldritch abomination and Jack and Maddie have no normal friends so they decide to go on a road trip to make sure none of their friends from college have become semi-satanic soul-eating holes in reality AU).

AO3 link to series.

The Fenton Ghost Assault Vehicle did not have the smoothest ride in the world, but Danny was used to it. Also, he had driven the Specter Speeder through the Carnivorous Canyon and ridden in Johnny 13’s sidecar.

Point being, if his parents didn’t want him to fall asleep, they should have told him. Or, at least, not dragged him out of bed at four thirty in the morning (both to get an early start and to avoid the reporters and other undesirables who had taken to circling Fentonworks like vultures).

Look. Danny might have been an unspeakable eldritch horror, a superhero, and one of the richest human beings on the face of the Earth, but he was also a teenager. Not to mention sleep deprived.

Besides, Mom and Dad had said their next Paranormal Research Club friend was miles and miles away. They wouldn’t reach his town until much later in the day. Danny had plenty of time to sleep safely.

Which is why he was so disgruntled when Dad shook him awake with a cheery “We’re here!”

“Where’s here?” asked Danny, rubbing his eyes and noting sadly how far away his portal back in Amity Park was.

“Breakfast,” said Jazz, voice heavy with sleep. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one trying to take advantage.

“’Kay,” said Danny, briefly wrestling with the seatbelt. He caught Mom staring as he opened the door. “What?” he asked frowning.

“Nothing,” she said, unconvincingly.

Whatever. Danny could figure it out later, when he was more awake. He jumped to the ground.

“I think you guys will really like it here!” said Dad, waving at the building. “The food’s great! An old friend owns the place. Your mom and I used to come here all the time before you were born, when we were commuting between Amity and Chicago.”

Danny nodded along, staring up at the neon sign that read ‘Red Flower Dinner.’ Then his brain caught up, and he slowly turned his head to look at Dad.

“’Old friend,’” he said. “What do you mean old friend?”

Dad blinked at him, uncomprehending. Jazz came to his rescue.

“Dad, we’re doing this whole trip because all of your old friends are lunatics,” she explained.

“They’re not!” said Dad, defensively. “Besides, Marianne was never part of our club. She didn’t even go to U of M.”

“She was a waitress at our favorite hangout,” explained Mom. “She got enough saved to buy this restaurant around the time we graduated. She’s few years older than us.”

“Saved? I thought a relative died, and she got an inheritance?” asked Dad.

Danny groaned. “Do you not see how suspicious that is?”

“Come on, Danno! We can have normal friends.”

“No, you can’t. If a normal thing ever interacts with our family in any way, it immediately becomes abnormal simply because of how unlikely it is for anything like that to happen.” He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars.

“He’s got a point,” said Jazz. “Maybe we could go to a different dinner?”

“But,” said Dad, “she makes the best breakfast. And she really is normal. She wasn’t involved in any ghost stuff.”

“Are you really telling me you never talked to her about ghost stuff at all?” asked Danny, suspiciously.

“Well, we did,” said Dad. “But we talk to everyone about ghost stuff.”

“Dad…”

Dad inhaled and heaved a huge sigh, shoulders sagging. “Alright, Danno. I get what you’re saying. We can go somewhere else… Even if it won’t be as good.”

Okay. Now Danny felt bad.

Unfair.

“Well,” he said. “I guess we could check and make sure she’s not, you know, haunted or anything. That’s why we’re doing this, I guess.”

Dad brightened immediately, and Danny had to grab the back of his shirt to keep him from running in.

“But remember, if I say we have to go, we have to go. That’s the deal.”

Dad nodded. Danny let go. He sighed as Dad disappeared into the building.

“Is the food really that good?” asked Danny.

“Marianne grows a lot of her own herbs,” offered Mom with a shrug. “Everything she makes is at least decent. But, well,” she grimaced as she held the door open for her children. “The reason we liked her so much was that she always seemed interested in our research. We liked talking to someone who took us seriously.”

“Wonderful,” deadpanned Jazz.

The décor inside the dinner was bright red and floral. The seats and benches were upholstered in shiny, dyed leather. A long glass counter displayed pies and other desserts under bright lights. The air was warm and smelled faintly of cherries. A radio station played quietly in the background, blurring the chatter of the other guests.

Danny rubbed his eyes again. Ugh. He was tired. Sleeping in a moving vehicle was a special kind of unrestful. Heh. Unrestful dead. More like unrested dead. That was him.

(Someday, he was going to track down the first person to say, ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead,’ and give them a stern talking to.)

“Marianne!” boomed Dad, waving at someone in the kitchen behind the order window.

There was a gasp. “Jack Fenton! Is that you?” A woman with greying brown curls leaned out, then ducked away briefly before reappearing through a door. “I haven’t seen you in years!” She threw her arms out, hugging first Dad and then Mom.

Danny bristled at the perceived threat to his parents but managed to control himself. This was nothing. Everything was fine. Just because every one of his parents’ friends so far had something weird and potentially fatal going on so far, it didn’t give him the right to police their every interaction with other human beings.

“Are these your kids?” asked Marianne, excitedly. “Oh, my goodness, you must be Jazz, and you’re Danny? I’ve only seen you in pictures, but you’ve grown so much. You’ll be as tall as your dad in no time.”

“Hope so,” said Danny, knowing there was no chance of that happening whatsoever.

Not with his human body, anyway.

“I hope we’ll get a chance to talk,” she continued, “but I have things on the stove. Why don’t you go ahead and find a seat? We’ll get to you soon.”

“Looking forward to it, Marianne!” said Dad, waving again.

“Is she alright?” asked Mom quietly as they slid into a corner booth.

Danny wound up in between Mom and Jazz, which was good, because Dad tended to elbow whoever he was sitting by. In this case, Mom, who could take it.

“I think so?” He rubbed his eyes. “But I can’t just sense everything. Don’t forget that.”

“Stop rubbing your eyes,” said Mom.

“They’re itchy,” said Danny. “I think I got some sleep sand in them or something.”

Mom’s expression softened. Danny blinked at it and wondered when he’d gotten so used to seeing an edge of suspicion on her face.

“It could be allergies,” she said. “It’s that time of year. Or it could be that you keep rubbing them.” She tugged his hands away from his face. “Either way, it isn’t healthy to keep touching your eyes, sweetie.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t have a point, but Danny wasn’t entirely sure he could get sick. Not anymore. Maybe if he was far enough away from Amity Park, spread thin enough between his two major physical manifestations… If his body was human enough… Maybe figuring that out could be a fun family bonding experience. Not.

He yawned. He wanted to go back to sleep. Being in here, with the warm scented air and not-quite-white background noise, only made slumber more inviting.

Still. His family’s ability to protect themselves was lacking. Danny at least had to stay conscious in case Marianne decided to channel the spirit of Locusta or something. Ancients, wouldn’t that be typical?

A waiter came, introduced themself, and handed out menus. Danny failed to process most of the waiter’s prepared speech, and his eyes drifted down to the menu.

It seemed… normal, for lack of a better word. Slightly worn, a couple stains on the paper behind the plastic protector. The pages had a border of blotchy red flowers. The items were all typical breakfast foods. Nothing jumped out at him.

He wasn’t even hungry. Actually, if he thought about it, he was a little nauseated. Sometimes that happened when he didn’t eat for a while, though, so maybe he was hungry, after all?

Why did bodies have to be so complicated?

“What are you getting?” asked Jazz, who was morally unable to make a food order until she’d taken a poll.

“I don’t know,” said Danny, folding his arms on the table and letting his head rest on them. “I’ll probably just get whatever you’re getting.”

Jazz frowned at him and repeated the question to their parents.

The waiter came back after a few minutes.

“I’ll have the Variety Breakfast!” said Dad, excitedly.

“The number five, please,” said Maddie. “Sausage links, not bacon.”

“Um,” said Jazz. “How about the Red Flower Special?”

“Excellent choice,” said the waiter, smiling. “Marianne grows all the seasonings for that herself, and the presentation is lovely.”

“I mean, it’s pancakes, right?” asked Jazz, nervously.

“It is, it is. What would you like for your side?” It took just a few seconds for the waiter to get the rest of Jazz’s order, then they turned to Danny. “And what are you having today?”

“Same as her,” said Danny, waving in Jazz’s general direction.

“Good choice, good choice,” said the waiter. “We’ll be back soon!”

“Thanks!” said Dad. He reached over Mom to pat Danny on the shoulder. “See? This is just a completely normal restaurant.”

“Mhm,” said Danny, dubiously. He’d believe it when he got out of here with his questionably mortal coil and squishy, murderable human family intact.

Okay. Maybe he was being a bit overdramatic, now. Was it because he was too far from the Amity portal? He’d been sure it wouldn’t significantly affect him, though. It wasn’t as if physical distance meant much in this context. Sure, he wasn’t on his home turf, but still…

Of course, he was a teenager. Teenagers were supposed to be overdramatic. At least, that’s what he’d heard. Being a teenager didn’t come with a manual any more than being a half-ghost superhero did, quirky TV shows about middle school notwithstanding.

Yeah. That sounded reasonable. He was a teenager who’d been woken early, and it was still early, and that meant the world was terrible. Excellent math.

He sipped at the water the waiter had left him, pleased with himself.

Which is when his and Jazz’s orders arrived. Danny caught a glimpse of red on him plate, abruptly recognized the prickling feeling in his eyes, expelled the water he was drinking from his nose, and propelled himself sideways across Mom and Dad and out of the booth.

“Ah!” he said, pointing at the red-tinted pancakes and the pretty little flowers on top.

The plating really was nice. Just like the waiter said.

The whole dinner was staring at him.

“He’s got allergies,” explained Jazz, her voice just a little too high pitched. “Just—Really horrible allergies. To flowers like this.”

“Blood blossoms,” said Danny. He was reasonably certain the things wouldn’t kill him, he wasn’t sure that anything short of something like Gula could kill him, but every encounter he had with them had been painful beyond belief, and he doubted that their being cooked would help very much with that.

“Right. Blood blossoms. The name always slips by me… Haha.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Marianne, rushing out of the kitchen. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was allergic to them! It’s just, you guys always talked about how they were lucky, and they got rid of bad spirits, so I thought I’d incorporate them, and they’re red, which is also lucky, and they taste so good—”

“Marianne,” said Mom, poking at one of the flowers, “where did you even get these? I thought they were extinct.”

“Oh,” said Marianne, “my uncle, the one who died, well I guess they’re all dead, now, but… The one who left me enough to buy the dinner? He worked in seed conservation. I got his personal collection.” She sniffed, apparently on the edge of tears.

“Ah,” said Mom, glancing at Danny. “That’s interesting. Um.” She slid out of the booth. “I’m really sorry, Marianne, but,” she gestured in Danny’s direction. “Food allergies.”

“He’s had breakouts just from being around them, before,” added Jazz, helpfully.

“Oh, no, no, I understand. Um. One second, let me give you my number, I don’t want to fall out of contact again, oh, dear. Tracy! Give me your notepad!”

It took several more minutes for all the Fentons to make their way back outside, most of which Danny spent staring into the dinner through the large front windows, keeping an eye on his family. Maybe he didn’t have ‘allergies’ in the typical sense but being around blood blossoms was making his skin itch and prickle unpleasantly.

Eventually, however, after Dad had shoved most of his order down his throat in a single go, they all got back into the GAV.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” said Jazz. “You two have no normal friends.”

#danny phantom #ectober week #ectober #ectober 2020 #ectober week 2020

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jenovahh · 4 years

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Catharsis -

Rating: General Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Patch 5.3 Spoilers

A love letter to a certain Ascian. ============================================================

She wonders if they’re envious, jealous even the tiniest bit.

It is still too soon, A’yana thinks. It takes nothing but a thought to let the flow of aether spin around her and transport her to the First if she so wished; but she is feeling nostalgic today.

Is it nostalgia? It feels worse than nostalgia.

She fingers the gear in her pocket, feels how it has slowly worn and grown smooth with her constant fumbling with it. Just holding it in her hand no longer takes her back to that other world; only by pure will alone can she whisk herself away.

And so she does.

The magic, the Exarch’s magic, that's still so familiar picks her up and spirits her across both time and space, replacing the warm comfort of her cottage to the cool crystal of the Ocular.

She didn’t want her return to be known. Didn’t want to make the people wonder why she was back so soon, to make them worry and question if some tragedy had befallen the Source, if her friends hadn’t made it safely back home. She wants them to forget. For her and the Scions to become memories, to ease the pain of knowing they will never see them again. The Ocular is still safe, the memory of the Exarch still too painful for Lyna or anyone else to return to.

Would that A’yana could learn from their example.

It is with that in mind she reaches out into the aether, reaches toward the Macarenses Angle, envisioning the city in her mind. On her next inhalation, the salty tang of the ocean fills her, though the water has long since been gone. Idly, she wonders if water will ever return to this place, if there is any undoing their disruptiveness. All things considered the Ondo took the uprooting of their very way of life relatively well, after a few favors, of course.

Breathing it in, A’yana wonders still how long the city will remain. If it will remain. Was the city not comprised of his own aether? Of something of himself? Would it be like any other failed nation, its towering spires and crowded walkways an echo of what once was, slowly giving way to time?

A’yana’s eyes burn at the notion, causing her to quickly abandon that train of thought. Reaching into her pack, she pulls out a horn, pressing the narrowest end to her lips and blowing loudly. After a beat, a gwiber swoops to land near her, its dark, obsidian scales glimmering even in the murky light. Petting it affectionately, she still questions its loyalty, though her heart knows the answer. It had showed up not too long after she had defeated him, following her nigh everywhere until she finally accepted it as her own.

Climbing atop its back, she grabs hold of the reins, giving them a fierce flick to urge the beast to take off into the sky. Dark magic surrounds it as its amethyst wings beat, carrying them higher in the tall city.

She flies with no destination in mind, merely wanting to glide past the sturdy brick, the immaculate glass. Even though she had never seen the original with her own eyes, not in this life at least, she still can tell that he had an eye for detail. Someone who lived as lavishly as he did, who built nations as great and prosperous as his home, would spare nothing.

If only, she could have spared him.

Some nights he haunts her nightmares, nightmares new and old. After learning her title, she has dreams, or perhaps visions, maybe even memories of her past life. Sometimes they are happy; glimpses of meeting new people, seeing strange places. Trying new things. Other times, they are filled with despair and woe, of the panic of not feeling she is going far enough, flying fast enough, looking deep enough on how to save their star--

A tear escapes its confines from the corner of her eye and she reaches up to gently dab at it. It would be those nights as well where the tears would come forth, her face streaked with the salty tracks upon her waking. She would lie there, staring at nothing as she would process this assault of new information, and that with each waking moment, her decisions felt like the wrong ones.

Her gwiber yelps suddenly, though it doesn’t seem to be in any visible pain. Petting it gently, A’yana holds the reigns tight as the gwiber suddenly veers downward, her heart stuttering in her chest, because while she is powerful, she is not immortal, and still susceptible to death from great heights. Clinging tight, the dragon-like creature begins to slow its descent, coming to a near halt as it comes before the great metal doors of one of the buildings. They open slowly before her, the gwiber landing gently on the pristine flooring before shaking roughly as if to throw her off.

“Hey, hey!” A’yana huffs, getting the message. She dismounts as best she can. “What’s gotten into you?!” She grumbles, stamping her foot. Rearranging the skirts of her dress to be more presentable, she crosses her arms across her chest. Despite the scantiness of her robes that are not unlike the Night's Blessed, she doesn't feel the chill of the ocean floor. “I have the mind to never call upon you again, you know.”

“Is that how you treat all things that do not act as you wish?”

Her heart stops.

It can’t be.

She doesn’t want to hope. Doesn’t want it to be true.

And yet a part of her so badly wishes that it is true, that it is him, that she’s not finally gone off the deep end--

“Really, hero. I go through the trouble of meeting you here and you cannot even turn around to greet me?”

Turn she does, so fast she trips over her skirts, her hands barely making it out in front of her in time to brace her fall. The floor is hard, and there’s a joke somewhere of how hard she fell for him, but she’s not ready to believe yet, she’s not ready, she’s not ready--

Her sapphire eyes see the edge of a black robe as it comes to a stop before her, her curly hair falling from her face as she tilts her head to look at the Amaurotine before her. To the naked eye, it looks just like any of the other apparitions that haunt these streets. Like every other conjured memory in this forgotten city. But to her…

Gods, above.

His golden eyes twinkle in her mind.

“Well? I cannot very well help you up, hero. ‘Tis plain to see I cannot even fashion the strength to assume the form you are so familiar with.” The Amaurotine scoffs, crossing their arms. They’re as tall as any other specter walking the halls, and you feel as small before him now as you did when you last saw him.

Pushing herself up to her feet, A’yana stares high up into the blank, but red mask of the ghost staring back at her. As she dusts off her brown skin, her words feel caught in her throat. There’s so much she wants to say. So much she wants to ask.

“Could you shrink, please?”

The Amaurotine stares back with a blank expression, and though it cannot emote anything else, she feels it nonetheless. An overexaggerated sigh meets her furry ears before a single hand raises up skyward, fingers brought together and--

Snap!

Before her eyes the shade is nearly her size now, as about as tall as a male Au’ra. Still big compared to someone as small in stature as her, but at least now she doesn’t feel like she could literally fit in the palm of his hand. Her lip trembles as the Amaurotine eases into a telltale slouch, one so familiar that she would’ve recognized it anywhere, even with her eyes closed. And she does close her eyes, and…

Golden eyes glitter, looking tired as ever, but relieved. Relaxed. Unburdened. Golden amulets and emblems sparkle on a lavish robe of Garlean origin, one so fancy, surely he must be nobility. Surely he is--

“Emet-Selch,” A’yana chokes out, tears flowing forth from her closed eyes.

“Now, now hero. Did I not reveal to you my true name when we last met?” He sighs once more, though it holds an amused tone. “You would do well to not bawl in my presence, when no one else is around to dry your tears.”

Nodding furiously, she wipes at her eyes with the same vigor, uncaring how she must look. Can he see how her heart leaps for him? How happy she is despite her tears? "Hades," she breathes, with so much reverence she can see him visibly recoil in surprise.

His Amaurotine body lifts both hands up, shrugging just as he does, shaking his head. "Come now. One would think you missed me despite being the one to put white auracite through my chest."

A'yana's lip quivers before she finds her words. "I have been filled with nothing but regret." She admits, the silence hanging between them. Hollow eyes stare back at her, revealing nothing.

"The truth is a heavy burden to bear." He states, a mote of pity in his tone. Taking a step closer to her, she watches as he reaches out, and gasps as she can feel his spectral hand touch her face. With delicate touch he gently closes her eyelids, giving her the vision of him once more.

"I thought you said this form wasn’t corporeal," she whimpers, her heart aching.

"Did I?" he teases, wiping at her tears. "Forgive me. I had only assumed such."

"I think you just like seeing me cry over you," She chokes out, unable to stop the waterworks.

"Quite the opposite. Unfortunately, sundered though you are, I've had quite the soft spot for you. Though when I lived, it felt akin to a thorn in my side." He chuckles catching each tear on his finger. "Though I must ask you dry your tears. I'd rather not spend my time here watching you weep."

Nodding, A'yana brings her hands up to dab at her eyes a bit more gently this time, reaching into her robes for a handkerchief to make herself more presentable. Once done, she takes a deep breath and stares at him through her closed eyes, taking him in. He looks just as she remembers, but how could he not?

"Well, if you are quite finished, shall we walk?" He offers his elbow, ever the gentleman. She tucks her hand in the crook of it, paying no mind to how it is somehow warm. She has no worry that he will lead her astray, or somehow betray her. Not after what he had done for her. For this shard and so many others.

She can hear the great doors open as he leads her outside, the salty air filling her sensitive nostrils. Her tail sways low, but excitedly, betraying her mood despite her passive face. She realizes only now how fully she trusts him; how much she has trusted him. “While I have always tried to set a stellar example but I would’ve thought you’d have learned from my mistakes.”

Her brow furrows in confusion. “Your mistakes?”

He pauses their strides for but a moment. “Your regret, hero.”

A’yana has nothing to say to that. “I...after Elidibus, I just,” She can’t find the words. Her throat tightens, her heart clenches. There’s so many things she feels, so many, and yet she cannot give them form somehow. “I wish I had known more.” She sighs, defeated.

Emet-Selch raises a strong eyebrow at her as he continues their walk. “And what would you have done if you had?”

She worries her lip, once again speechless.

“Would you have convinced your Scions we were worth sparing? Convinced an entire fragmented world that our lives were worth living? Our cause just?” He scoffs, giving a shake of his hair. “Clearly you learned nothing from Elidibus.”

“I did!” A’yana bites back, giving him a harsh shove. “I learned who I am, who I was,” She begins, her fists clenched, shaking at her sides. “I learned of his sorrow, of what I was to him, to you,” She’s losing her grip fast, her knees crumbling before her as tears well in her eyes. “I learned...I learned…” Her face breaks up more as she looks at him with her soul, seeing the pity in his eyes. “Don’t look at me that way,”

“Hero.” He utters the title with such care, the syllables having lost the vitriol he gave it when he was living. He kneels before her, hand outstretched with a clean handkerchief. “It seems that you have been holding in too much for too long.” He murmurs, watching as she furiously wipes at her eyes. “Your Scions; do they not offer you comfort?”

“How could they understand?” She laughs bitterly. “I sound like you now.”

“Hardly, hero.” He pulls her up to stand on wobbly feet, tucking her arm back in his elbow a bit tighter this time.

They continue to walk in silence as she calms down, until her nose dries up and eyes no longer water. If she works hard enough, she can see the city in her mind, envision that they walk down its roads arm and arm together. “You loved me, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps.” Emet-Selch answers vaguely, a note of amusement to his voice. “Your seat was one that had always fascinated me and you, fascinated me even more. You had the hearts of many in your pocket.” He laughs, clearly lost in the memory. “Many a suitor asked for your hand anytime you returned from your time away.”

“And...did you love me? When you were here?”

He doesn’t answer as readily this time, his steps slowing. “As best as I was able.” He answers truthfully. “To elaborate, because you certainly will ask,” he bemoans as she gives him a smack on his arm, “You are you, but you are not who you once were.”

“You mean...I am the bearer of that soul but...I am not the person I once was?”

“There are differences,” he begins, stopping beneath a lavender tree. “Some so small that it gave me absurd instances of deja vu, and some so great it was a wonder you could share the same soul at all.” He looks so at peace, no longer tempered, no longer driven by duty. Almost a different man entirely, she thinks to herself, gazing up into the tree alongside him in her mind’s eye.

The lavender calms her, soothes her already frazzled nerves. They stand there beneath the tree, time passing at a snail’s pace, but passing nonetheless. “I have so much I want to ask.” She whispers, suddenly shy.

“Then ask.” He responds simply, gazing up into the trees. The light of the city accentuates how handsome he is, and you are sure he knows it. “Use your right words.”

“Why did you...save me?” She asks, desperate to know the answer. The past few days she could do nothing but toss and turn as she speculated about his intervention, with the Scions only providing slivers of insight. And though some of them may have been right, she found herself longing to ask him herself.

“And why shouldn’t I have?” He counters, releasing her to go slouch against the tree’s broad trunk.

“Elidibus could’ve overwhelmed me. Killed me. Delivered the salvation he sought,” She takes a deep breath to keep her emotions steady. “He would have won, and in time, succeeded with the Ardor. The Rejoining,”

“Do you think your Mother would not have fashioned yet another champion?” He interrupts, leveling her with a serious look. “Given up on your soul, so strong after so many rejoinings already?”

Pursing her lips, she thinks on it for a moment. “But Elidibus,”

“You saw him.” He cuts her off once again, his expression unchanged. “Your little Scions, Y’shtola was it, had the right of it. After so many millenia, even my memories had become so watered down, mere farces of what they once were. But by His will, did I push myself forward. It had warped us all. Lahabrea, formerly so articulate and calculating, brought down by a mortal wearing the skin of a primal. Hopping from body to body, his passion had warped into him overworking himself, leading to his demise.”

He stands to full height now, approaching her with measured steps. “I, personally, had lost sight as well. I could not deal with my grief and it eventually warped me, just as it had my brother.” His tone is harsh but pleading. “You saw him, Hero. Saw how Elidibus could not even remember, what I bade you to remember.” Coming to a stop before her, he takes her chin in hand, tilting it up toward him. “Why would I leave my brother to suffer alone?”

A’yana gasps, the shock of his statement making her eyelids open as her eyes go wide, face to face with the Amaurotine shade and not the Garlean visage she held in her mind. Closing them once more, she whimpers. “So you,”

“I aided you, to end his suffering. To bring him home.” He breathes, wiping at the silent tears on her face with his own hands. “No one save you could have ended our plight. To free us from an eons worth of duty, hero. In saving you, I had saved Elidibus.”

She feels his thumb graze across her quivering bottom lip. “Is he...is he okay?”

She hears him scoff, but his lips curl into a smile. “Really now, are you incapable of thinking of yourself for but one moment?” He laughs, wiping at more tears. “We’ve already cemented the fact that you leak more than a faucet.”

A’yana does laugh then, a smile breaking out on her face. It is a strange laugh, bittersweet in its nature as he dries her puffy eyes. She will have to rest later, once she returns home. Though he has not answered her directly, she can tell what his answer is in what he has not said. “I am glad.” With a light huff, his other hand comes to wrap around her and pull her close, his body somehow feeling warm as well. “Will this be the last I see of you?”

“Perhaps,” he offers vaguely once more. She rests his head just below his chest, hugging her arms tightly around him. “As much as I have enjoyed my rest, you are far too entertaining to leave alone for too long, sweet hero.”

She promises to not cry again, willing the tears back in her eyes. “Then perhaps I will look forward to your next visit.” She teases, to which he gives a genuine laugh.

“Who knows when that will be, dear hero.” He parts with her just far enough to tilt her head toward him again, gazing deep into his topaz eyes. “We have entrusted this star to you. You must protect it, without fail.”

She nods, leaning into his hand. “There was never another option.”

“Good.” He bends down to place his lips to her forehead, placing a kiss there. “Do not let me down.”

When she opens her eyes, the shade is gone, the gwiber in its place. It gives a curious warble, giving its wings a shake as it pads toward her on its hind legs. Nudging its head under her hands, it chirrups happily, causing her to giggle as well. “I’m sorry for earlier.” She murmurs, giving an affectionate rub to its horns. “Shall we go home?”

The gwiber chirps happily as she climbs atop its back, grabbing hold of the reins. With a quick flick it takes off, ascending slowly toward the coastal shelf. As the city lights twinkle behind her, she does not look back.

She looks forward.

#Emet-Selch #solus zos galvus #warrior of light #FFXIV #ff14 #my writings #5.3 Spoilers

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undertalethingies · 4 years

Text

I May Not Be Able To Walk, But That Doesn’t Mean I’ll Stop Running From My Problems

So, I wrote this with Fighter’s Block, which is an absolutely wonderful site for people who have problems with writing too slowly (ie: me), but the consequence of having written this piece a lot faster than usual is that there might be some spelling and grammar issues, even after editing it. Anyway, on to the actual writing.

When the royal scientist offered to give Chara a chance to live again, they thought Alphys was kidding. They'd died, after all, in a rather gruesome and deliberately permanent manner. The idea of just... living again, was in its own way terrifying to the one time child and several time demon.

It didn't seem all that fair, either, considering the fact that Asriel couldn't be offered the same. Regardless, the prospect of getting another chance at life (even if they'd probably blow it just as they had the first one) was too tempting a prospect to simply ignore.

So Chara agreed, and was offered the chance to learn and grow once more.

When they woke up, feeling their new body cold on the lab bed, their first thought was that the world was too loud. It wasn't sound they meant, of course. (they'd had plenty access to that in their discount afterlife) but the sensations, the smells, were too much for someone dead to the world as long as they.

It was exhausting, really.

Slowly, they got up, swinging their legs over the side of the sterile hospital bed as they gathered their bearings for the first time in over a century. It was odd, the way the blanket rustled against their legs, the cloth folding and wrinkling with each minute movement.

Carefully, they grabbed Frisk's hand (The kid had insisted on being there when they finally woke up, and had probably been sitting by the bedside for hours) (dumbass) and stood up.

Or tried to, at least. It had been so long since they'd had any need to balance that they didn't really remember how, anymore, and it showed. They stumbled forward, straight into their (literal) supporter. Their limbs refused to cooperate with the commands they were sent, instead going every which way, tangling unpleasantly with each other. Briefly, Chara regretted allowing Alphys near their SOUL, if this was what was going to come of it.

(honestly, so annoying)

It weighed on them a bit, that they'd been so far removed from their humanity for so long, to the point where they could no longer convincingly fake it or even function within the should-have-been familiar framework.

Chara wasn't known for giving up, though. (quite the opposite) so while they did sit back down, they did it with the intent to get up and try again the moment they'd sorted out their muscle control a bit.

...More than a bit. they felt like a newborn, all jerky movements and poor control, and they hated it.

It took days, weeks even, to figure out their new-old being and regain the control that had once come so easily to them. Frisk was a great help, as well as Papyrus. Those two had always been so stubborn about easing the way for others. Sans was pretty useful too, though him more because he could be relied on to catch them if they fell in an unexpected direction, as opposed to Frisk and Papyrus' more hands on methods.

It took time, but they learned. They weren't sure they'd ever regain the grace that had once defined them (the grace they'd fought and clawed for, but no, they weren't bitter) but they were getting better at moving like a person, as opposed to a poorly programmed robot, each day.

They wondered, quietly, on a night when it felt like everything they'd once loved was so far away it might as well be gone forever, why they'd come back at all. Why they'd bothered to claw their way up from the icy creeping reaches of death and despair that had come for them after their death.

They didn't really know why they'd done it, was the thing, other than a reaching need for something, anything, better than the poor ending they'd made for themself and their brother.

They had done it, though. Little sense in worrying about it now, when suicide would only result in a LOAD and immediate therapy that they very much wanted to avoid.

Eventually, they regained the ability to walk. They shambled around looking like nothing so much as the corpse still buried under a bed of golden flowers in the RUINS, but they did manage to perform the movement without falling over. They decided to delegate all of their efforts to improving it though, when they saw the way Sans pointedly didn't flinch. the shambling walk did look like the one they had adopted in their attempts at genocide, for certain, and they hated to bring their friend's mind back to the dark memories that haunted that particular path.

It was nice though, being able to move under their own power again. Liberating, to not be attached to a child, forced to carry out their every whim, regardless of whether they desired to.

(being a ghost had been useful in survival department, but their autonomy had taken a blow they didn't know if they could ever truly recover from)

Sometimes, Asgore or Toriel would come to the hospital room where they confined themselves, asking to see them. They turned their parents away each time, unable to face the specters that haunted their faces and the spirits that dogged their footsteps (figuratively, of course)

It just wasn't something they were ready to address. Even if they didn't talk about it with their parents, they knew that they wouldn't be able to forget, wouldn't be able to turn their ever prying eyes away from the dark path their guardians had walked in their absence.

In the end, they supposed that they just didn't want to deal with it, though they knew they would have to at some point.

They did so love to delay. Delay this, delay that, delay their return to the world for a century after they were needed, hah.

It was pathetic, they supposed, to be so bothered by something as simple as being able to walk with such concerns pressing upon them. Regardless...

They wanted to feel like themselves again, and they didn't, stumbling around like this.

They just felt useless, and they hated it.

#undertale #undertale fanfiction #undertale fanfic #chara #angst #fun fact about me: when I write fast it tends to get SUPER angsty #and yeah the prose thing is just kinda How I Do #and yeah anyway this was spawned from me thinking about how i would absolutely HATE it if i had to relearn how to walk #because can you imagine? that would suck so unbelievably much #i default to chara pov when writing quickly because it's really easy for me to get into their narrative 'voice'#due to how much i identify with them #i may not be able to walk but that doesn't mean i'll stop running from my problems

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vannahfanfics · 4 years

Text

Ghosts

Category: Angst

Fandom: Gintama

Characters: Gintoki Sakata, Katsura Kotarou

Requested By: Hawk (FanFiction)

Gintoki screwed up his face in mild annoyance as he teased his fingers through his silver hair, which was brightened to the point of ephemeral sheen as he strolled the streets of Kabukicho in the deep of the night. It was uncharacteristic of him to be awake in the wee hours of the morning; normally, by this time, not even a parade of stampeding animals— hell, even a nuclear holocaust— could awaken him. Uncharacteristic, but not completely exceptional, either. Every once in a blue moon, Gintoki found that his mind simply raced to the point that sleep evaded him- and so, he took to patrolling the streets like a specter. It wasn’t an unfitting description, either, because Gintoki only ever got like this when he was particularly haunted by the horrors of his past.

Gintoki was easy-going and carefree, but not completely infallible. Every so often, his darkness snuck up on him. He could lay there and stare at the ceiling while the bloody images burned into his eyeballs, but that really wasn’t an appealing option. Out here, at least, bathed under the tranquil light of the moon and the shining glitter of the stars that outlined the stark silhouettes of the various establishments and homes, there was almost enough visually to distract Gintoki from those awful thoughts. Almost.

They snuck up on him unexpectedly. He’d look down at his hands and find them splattered with rich red blood that glowed ruby in the light, or he’d look down an alleyway to find a piled mound of corpses, piled high and rotting. No one would ever know it with the way he charged fearlessly into battle, but even Gintoki was not immune to it. If he had no remorse about the crimes against nature that he had committed, he would truly be a monster. Every warrior had their nightmares. Every soldier had remorse. It was simply the reparations for the choices he had made. Though if one asked him, Gintoki would deny that he had any regrets, and it would be true. He was a man that was very fastidious in his beliefs, and he would soak his hands in blood a thousand times over without thinking twice- but that didn’t stop him from awaking in cold sweats sometimes.

He tipped his head back with a long, drawn-out sigh, tired eyes beholding the heavens. He wasn’t a sentimental guy, really; he didn’t stop to smell the roses or think hard on the simple pleasures of life. However, during his irregular midnight meandering, his eyes were always drawn up to the black canvas punctured with pinpricks of light. Something about the cold, indignant white rays was oddly comforting— like he was convincing himself that the heavens passed no judgment. They shone on him, a blood-drenched sinner, and a divine saint just as equally. Gintoki really didn’t think much into the matters of life after death and potential punishments for his transgressions, but he wouldn’t say that he never thought about it, either. It was a characteristic of being human, wondering about what happened next. It would flicker in his mind for just a brief moment, like a will-o-the-wisp bobbing through the dark wood of his mind. Then he’d force it away, because what was the point? He would know when he died.

His feet carried him to the local graveyard, almost like he really was a wandering spirit attracted to the realm of the dead. He strolled silently through the rows and rows of gray stones inscribed with those he never knew but called out to him anyway. Samurai, housewives, criminals, construction workers, shopkeepers, shoguns— at the end of the day, they were all just destined to be put in a hole in the ground six-foot deep. At the drop of a hat, one’s life is snuffed out and nothing matters anymore. Gintoki never knew whether to find that humbling or disturbing.

The only sound was the gentle strikes of his sandaled feet against the cobblestone path. It pounded in his ears like the somber beating of a death knell drum- or was it a headache from lack of sleep? After a point, Gintoki’s mind began to grow muddled and foggy. It was usually a sign that he was near the point of exhaustion. Sometimes he would be able to stagger back to the Yorozuya and collapse into his futon, and sometimes he would pass out somewhere in the sprawl of Kabukicho, like some common drunk tottering back from a binger. It really was a coin toss.

Gintoki was about to do just that and head back when suddenly his footsteps weren’t the only sound in the graveyard. In the near distance, he could hear a soft voice—like someone was speaking to a grave. Not unusual in itself, but unusual for the time of night. On a whim, he decided to investigate and follow the sound, eventually coming upon someone sitting across from a gravestone talking quietly about daily life.

“Zura?”

“It’s Katsura. What are you doing out so late, Gintoki?” The former Joui patriot asked with a wry smile and a glance out of the corner of his eyes. With an indignant snort, Gintoki tucked his hand into the fold of his kimono and eyed him grudgingly.

“I could ask you the same question.” Katsura languidly lolled his head over his shoulder to smirk at him sardonically. Honestly, there was no point in interrogating each other, because they were both out for the same reasons and they both knew it. Spying a sake bottle sitting beside the long-haired man, Gintoki strolled over to lean down and snatch it up, draining the bottle of a third of its contents in one swig. The clear rice wine burned his throat as it washed down his throat, but ironically rather than muddying his mind further, he found the sleepy fog lifting.

“Rude, stealing a man’s offering like that,” Katsura huffed. With an equally incensed puff, Gintoki sat the bottle down beside him again, its ceramic surface striking loudly against the smooth cobblestone.

“There’s plenty left. Don’t be greedy.” Gintoki’s eyes flashed to the characters inscribed on the grave marker. Nobunobu, of course. Gintoki had never been privy to the exact details of what had gone down in the Amanto spaceship in the sky, but he was very familiar with the fact that Katsura now felt some kind of deep kinship with the deceased shogun. Apparently, the former coward had reformed himself tremendously under the duress of the world ending. It was interesting; normally, such a situation brought out the worst in people, not the best. Gintoki crouched down beside Katsura to stare levelly at the gray stone with not a thought in his mind at all. Katsura sat beside him, eyes closed and arms crossed as he meditated under the cold light of the moon.

“Do you ever wonder if there’s no need for men like us anymore?” Katsura asked suddenly, softly. Gintoki’s gaze flickered to him to see him once more eyeing him thoughtfully out of the corners of his eyes. Gintoki pondered on the question for a moment before returning his stare to the gravestone.

“Looking to throw in the towel already? How unlike you, Zura,” he said, but there was not a playful or mocking tone in his voice. It was level and unfeeling, matching his expressionless face. “Of course I wonder,” he answered after another brief period of silence. “But then, what would be left of me? I am who I am, so I’m just gonna keep on bein’ me until the world decides to do me in,” he shrugged nonchalantly. He could be unnecessary in the grand scheme of things, but to a certain corner of the world, he was necessary. There were people who depended on him to be Gintoki, and that was enough for him. They accepted him, blood-stained hands and all. There wasn’t really much need for him to change or question his place in the world. He had one.

Katsura’s mouth curled into a slight smirk as he exhaled sharply from his nose.

“How like you.” Gintoki shrugged again and threaded his fingers through his silvery hair. He plucked up the sake bottle to partake in its contents just like Gintoki had earlier, then poured the lingering third of the alcohol over the top of the gravestone. With lidded eyes, Gintoki watched the shiny silver surface of the porous stone darken to an ashy gray as the pearls of liquid slowly traveled down its surface in many rivers. He wasn’t sure if Katsura wanted him to say more. He didn’t have much to say. He was a samurai, not a philosopher. “Good talk, Gintoki,” Katsura mused and clapped him on the shoulder before standing up. Gintoki swallowed the wry quip that it wasn’t really much of a chat at all, just two forgotten relics brooding in the dark together. With a small sigh, he pushed himself up into a standing position as well, lamenting the burning creak in his knees. He should know better than to squat like that for so long. Katsura twirled the empty sake bottle in his hand as he regarded him with a small smile. “You ever think the nightmares will stop?” Way to get to the heart of the matter, Zura.

“Nah,” Gintoki answered immediately with another glance at the forlorn moon. The wind blew suddenly, rustling the thick fabric of their kimonos and shaking the leaves of the trees planted in the graveyard as if the world had given its affirmation to his answer. “But they’re only nightmares, after all,” he added indifferently as if they weren’t the very thing that had him roaming the night like a lost soul. He wandered and wallowed, but he always found his way back home. “It’s always fine once morning comes.” He would never admit it, but he’d always forget the lurid visions of war once he was greeted by Kagura and Shinpachi’s bright, childish faces. Dawn was never out of his reach.

“You really have it all figured out, don’t you?”

“Me?” Gintoki scoffed with a roguish grin. “Nah. You know me, Zura. I just make it up as I go along.” The air rang with the patriot’s airy laugh.

“I suppose you do.” Katsura looked up at the sky again, then back at the silver-haired samurai. “Time to head home. Morning isn’t far off,” he said with a simple wave before whirling on his heel to begin striding back towards the entrance of the graveyard. He vanished like smoke, melting into the darkness. Gintoki smirked slightly and looked at the horizon, which was beginning to grow fuzzy with the faint trickle of yellow. He thought of Kagura and Shinpachi, asleep in their beds and eager to greet the day once morning came.

Morning isn’t far off, indeed.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#gintama #gintoki sakata #gintoki #katsura kotarou #katsura #oneshot #oneshot collection #gintama fanfic #gintama fanfiction #friendship #angst #general fluff #friendship fluff

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alannah-corvaine · 5 years

Text

epilogue;

It’s a habit that she knows she should break.

There’s no reason to return to the First, not when the Shard is settled and calm and things are bad back home. But the vaunted Warrior of Light can’t help herself, can’t stay away. There are things we cannot afford to lose, the Exarch had told her. His words have resonated with her more than he could ever know. Just not in the way that he had meant it. The world can’t afford to lose her. And Alannah…

...she can’t lose him.

She already has, of course. He was gone before she’d known she’d miss him, before the dust had even settled after their last meeting on the burning sands of Thanalan. She’d never expected to see him again, never expected to follow his footsteps back to the First. Never thought he’d be a misspoken memory maligned by a fate he’d never asked for, in whose footsteps she could do naught but tread.

And then...to meet again the way that they had. To learn his thoughts and fears and the demons that haunted him, and to find that they mirror her own. His shoulder, though that of a specter, has seen more of her tears than her comrades of many years. How can she explain the connection between them when she barely understands it herself?

In any case, she has long since served her purpose here. There are no more foes to vanquish, no shadows to peer into. No, her trips to the First since the fall of Emet-Selch have been unsanctioned and secret. They have to stop, she thinks. But she can’t stop.

Perhaps she could have, if it weren’t for the boy.

Alannah can’t decide if this is a cruelty or a kindness. If it were anybody else, she could not be sure, but his soul is entangled with hers, there is no mistaking it for another’s.

The boy is young when they meet for the first time. The only time, because she keeps herself distant. He is innocent, ignorant of the deeds that have earned him this second chance. Alannah has decided that she will not be the one to tell him. He deserves a life free of pain and of worry. He deserves to be happy.

So she watches from afar, easing the anxious ache in her chest with her various visits. Always a stranger, an unseen silent guardian. The time between worlds flows erratically, and though she is aware of its mysterious twisting and turning, she cannot help but be taken aback each time she returns. After an absence of weeks in the Source, she may visit once more to find that years have passed on the First.

To see him grown, a boy becoming a man, brings her a joy that borders on terror. The fear of losing him once more brings her back again and again, indulging in a selfish need that is unbecoming of the selfless Warrior of Light. And yet.

This particular sojourn finds her hovering outside the window of a Kholusian tavern, her face hidden in the shadows cast by the flickering candles in the window. She has nearly made up her mind to go inside, determined to keep her cloak pulled tight around her with her hood hiding her features. Her eyes are drawn instantly to the youth seated at the center table, surrounded by loud and rowdy companions. These faces she knows too, and her heart gladens at the sight of them together once more.

Putting aside her misgivings, she pushes the door open and enters.

Instantly she is assaulted by anxiety, certain that the white of her hair and the unmistakable aura of power will give her away. But the tavern dwellers take no notice of her, strange and foreign as she is, and Alannah decides that the tense set of her shoulders is more like to make her stand out. She makes her way to a less occupied corner, murmuring her choice of drink to a maid as she passes by.

The inn is crowded this eve, and as she weaves her way through the sea of people, she can’t help but feel awash in a celebratory warmth. Nigh on fifteen years have passed in the First since her victory over the Light, and not for a moment have the people taken their hard-won peace for granted. A dream-like calm enfolds her in its embrace, and she finds herself lost in memories as various faces pass her by.

The twinkling lights dim and blur as her eyes become heavy. Soon a blink becomes a nod, and she succumbs to a drowsy comfort dragging her down beneath consciousness. Just for a moment, she thinks hazily, already lost to the tug of a sweet dream.

“Ardbert, ya lazy lout, put some muscle inta it!”

The large galdjent roars with laughter, even as beads of sweat dot his forehead. His companion, the dark-haired hume Ardbert, struggles to contain his own mirth as he grins fiercely at his friend. The two are locked in a mighty struggle of an arm wrestling match, neither willing to admit defeat, muscles straining as they wrest for dominance.

“You’re getting soft on me, Branden,” he chuckles. Truth be told, his own arm is starting to shake from weakness, and there’s a very good chance he’s going to lose this match. Beside him, Renda-Rae lets loose a raucous cheer, and it’s obvious the mystel is deep in her cups. Lammit and Nyelbert sit nearby deep in discussion about some finer point of magic that Arbert will readily admit he neither understands nor cares about. Still, their company is welcome, even if they have different interests.

Moments later his arm falls, and Branden claims another victory. Chagrined, Ardbert pays for his next drink, lamenting the lightness of his coin purse. Shaking his head, he takes a long drought of his own ale. “We’re not finished here,” he declares, fighting a smile. “Not until I’ve won, anyway.”

“If it’s a challenge you want, it’s a challenge you’ll get, boy!” Branden offers his outstretched hand once more, an amused twinkle in his eye, and Ardbert accepts it immediately.

“Wait wait wait wait wait!” Renda-Rae calls, halting their competition. “I say this contest needs some real stakes. What about…” the mystel taps her chin, deep in thought. “I got it! Loser has to wash the winner’s leathers for the next moon!” The men recoil in disgust, neither wanting to imagine such a scenario. Still, they agree, and the terms are set. They clasp arms once more, the beginnings of adrenaline coursing through their veins.

As they await Renda-Rae’s command to start, Arbert takes a quick survey of the room. Most of the tavern’s patrons are familiar to him, having lived in this village their whole lives. They are men and women he has known for years, shared in their triumphs and their heartaches. Some few are strangers, but the town is no stranger to passersby, and their coin is always welcome.

One such stranger he spies in a corner, hooded and unobtrusive. Something about them draws his eye, and he watches with interest as they suddenly jolt upright. The hood falls from their face, and now he can see that the stranger is a pale young woman. Her long hair is a brown darker than his, and as it spills around her he can see distinct strands of white threaded throughout. An interesting appearance for a woman who looks no older than his own age.

She hurriedly rises from her seat, obviously in a rush as she makes for the door. Her gaze flickers across the room as she pauses at the door, and for the briefest instant his eyes catch hers.

Wildfire erupts in his veins, and Renda-Rae’s voice is a million malms away as she calls the beginning of the match. The pressure against his hand is nothing against the sudden tidal surge of memory that threatens to drown him. All sound fades from the room, all sight from his eyes but the image of her face, burned into his being like a brand.

“Oi, whatsa matter with him? You in there, Ardbert? Keep it up and you’ll be washing my underthings ‘til your next nameday!”

“I think he’s lookin’ at that girl. Look at ‘im, he’s completely besotted! I can’t believe me eyes.”

But Ardbert hears none of this. The roar of blood in his ears is too loud, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He knows her name, it’s on the tip of his tongue. A parade of images flashes in his mind, each one tightening a vice around his ribcage. Memories of another life, memories of an afterlife. Memories of her.

Midnights in her room. Fear and despair in her eyes. Her hand touching his, the brilliant light between them. Her laughter carried on the wind and a smile just for him. A final stand and her gift of redemption.

He can’t breathe. A pain such as he has never known in his life threatens to break him in half. He’s half out of his chair before he knows what he’s doing, tugging his hand away from Branden without acknowledgement of his sudden fervor. She’s already out the door, taking her answers with her. Panic ignites in his breast, and his fevered brain finally loosens its grip on her name.

“ALANNAH.”

Stupid stupid stupid!

She should have never gone in there, should never have let herself get comfortable. To fall asleep here of all places! Her lack of diligence is astounding and this is probably why the Scions never let her go anywhere by herself. Alannah steps out into the darkening eve, drawing her cloak around her and adjusting her fallen hood. Sloppy, she sneers at herself in disgust.

A disaster, that’s what she is, making these trips to the First when it’s all done and over. She’s the only one who can’t let go or move on. Sometimes, when she’s bitter, she wonders why she should. Her friends aren’t the ones with a fragmented soul, with a piece in the shape of the hole in her heart. There are some things that cannot be explained by words alone, that only the soul knows, some wounds that will never be whole again.

A commotion from inside the inn catches her attention. A lone shout sends tingles up her spine, making her knees weak, and all the breath leaves her. She doesn’t know how, but she knows. Her heart beats frantically, erratically as the door slams open behind her. Her own name thrums in her ears, a radio signal calling her home.

His harsh breathing and heavy steps come to a halt in her wake.

“Alannah.”

A small sob escapes her. How long has she heard that voice in her dreams? How long has it been since those blue eyes beheld her, aware of who she is? She is afraid to turn, afraid to face a dream that will vanish in the morning light. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have come. He deserves a life free from the trials and travails of a hero’s lot, and she will never ever be able to give that to him.

“It is you, isn’t it? I know you felt it just now, whatever it was. Just turn around, please. Look at me.”

Her feet have no will of their own as she slowly shifts to face him. Agony is written in her eyes, and she has not the strength to hide it. His own expression, when at last she beholds him in her sight, is naked confusion and something she can’t name. Her hood drops away from her face, leaving her exposed to his scrutiny. She licks her parched lips, trying to find any words that could possibly be enough between them.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Her voice is hoarse and raspy. “I’m sorry.”

Ardbert takes a step closer, his brow furrowing. “Sorry? For what?”

“I--”

A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly knocks her off her feet. A bone-deep weariness settles in her like a stone, bearing her down to the ground. Too much, it’s all too much, when all she wants to do is cry. Her ears catch the sound of dirt gravel crunching beneath boots approaching her as the world spins, and she falls into darkness as the ground rushes up to meet her.

Ardbert watches her as she sleeps, sitting on the edge of the inn room bed as she lays curled on her side where he’d laid her some two hours before after her collapse. It’s a familiar feeling, as though he’s done this before, standing guard by her side until her waking hours return. He thinks of the look on her face as he’d confronted her, such anguish in her eyes that pierced to the heart of him. He remembers her burden, what once was his, and feels guilty.

As he wonders what has befallen her since that day in the Dying Gasp, an unruly finger rises to brush the bangs from her face. His hand lingers overlong, content to caress the soft skin of her brow. She stirs beneath his touch, sighing into wakefulness as her eyes grudgingly open. He does not withdraw, hesitating as her groggy gaze meets his.

“Ardbert?” Her voice is quiet, almost timid.

He makes a noise of confirmation, and she lets out a long breath. Alannah looks at him then, her uncanny green eyes making him dizzy. There is a long moment of silence between them as they memorize the other’s features, drinking in all that they have missed in their separation.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, feeling oddly protective of a woman whose deeds and power are unrivaled.

Her face crumples, as though she is about to cry. He knows just how much it costs her to answer with a tiny “no.” She buries her face into the pillow, great sobs wracking her body as her hands clench and unclench in the blankets. Before she can curl into herself, Ardbert pulls her against him, wrapping his arms around her tight and murmuring words of comfort into her hair.

They lay like this for a long time, until she is drained of her tears.

She slumps against him, with no will or energy to move. Her breathing eventually evens out, her body shuddering one last time. “I tried to stay away,” she confesses, “but I keep coming back. I had to know that you were okay. And…” she pauses, a knot of fear in her throat. “I missed you,” she whispers, hiding her face again.

He frowns and gently pries her away from his chest. “Why would you stay away? Shouldn’t a hero have free reign to visit the world she’s saved?”

He sees the bitterness in her face for the first time as she answers. “You should have a free life. One far away from me and all the horror I bring with me, and all the things you left behind. Me being here...just seeing me brought back your memories of all of that. In my selfishness, I’ve ruined the life you deserve. Because I couldn’t stay away.”

It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts, with lips pursed and brow furrowed.

“A life with you in it could never be ruined,” he tells her softly. “I would rather have you here, and know all the evil of the world, than live in ignorance without you.”

She gazes at him, stricken, as though not daring to believe. A war within her rages on her face as she absorbs his words, torn between what she knows and what he offers.

Ardbert smiles, a tinge of sadness touching his expression as he runs a hand through her hair. “You have saved everything I have ever held dear, and did what I could not.” At this she stringently objects, shaking her head violently. “You saved me,” she says in a broken voice, tears returning to her eyes.

He has no words for what he wants to tell her, so he brings his fingertips to her face, tenderly swiping away her stray tears. They trail from her brow to her cheeks, descending to her chin as he tilts his head toward hers.

The first touch of their lips is tentative and slow, a gentle press as his hand slips between the strands of her hair to support her neck. A light sparks between them, ebullient in its brilliance, a radiant reminder of Her blessing that they share. A brief pause for breath, then the kiss becomes something more. He is pressing her down, the warmth of him surrounding her, a homecoming that she has not felt in years.

Moments pass, or hours, neither of them know. She forgets her name, her titles, the weight of the world. All are distant stars in the sky as she lays in his arms.

She touches him too, tracing the line of his jaw and the landscape of his chest. There cannot be enough kisses between them. Soft kisses, long kisses, passionate and devouring.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she confesses as they shed their clothing, hungry for closeness.

He breathes against her neck, as uncertain as she is, only knowing that every cell in his body begs to be closer, closer. Easing himself into his elbows above her, he smiles at her reassuringly, leaving a chaste kiss on her lips. “If you tell me to stop, I will.”

She nods her head nervously, already winding her limbs around his. A sweet ache builds and builds in her chest as he moves in her, ‘til it brings her near to tears. “I…” Mere words are not enough for this moment, unneeded as their souls rejoice.

“Stay with me,” she gasps, undone and unraveling. “Please, please stay.”

His lips curve against her collar, nipping at her skin. Ardbert raises his head to look at her, heat piercing him at the sight of her tangled hair and wild eyes. He kisses her again before rolling onto his back, bringing her with him. As she lays on his chest, panting for breath, he presses one palm to her hip and the other to her face.

“As long as you will have me, Warrior of Light,” he kisses her forehead, “I will be at your side.”

#WHEEZES #IT'S' FINALLY DONE #word count: roughly 3k #which is longer than anything else ive written in a longass time #i hope someone enjoys this trash heap of self-indulgent shippery #this is maybe a little spoilery? idk #read at your own risk #otp: as one fool to another #drabbles

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sweetiepie08 · 5 years

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Musician with Poison Tears (Chapter 8)

Miguel Rivera’s been fascinated by the story of the legendary ghost, the Musician with Poison Tears, since he was a kid. He’s always wanted to know the full story behind the weeping specter that haunts the train station with its invisible guitar. Now 18, the travels to Mexico City to try to observe the ghost from afar and get some clues about its origin. Who knows? He might even get a song out of it.

This story is based on the art and ghost!au created by @melcecilia14. Go check out her artwork here, here, here, and here. It’s really awesome.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10. Epilogue.

Bonus.

When they arrived at the train station, Abel and Rosa asked if he wanted them to go in. He thanked them, but decided he wanted to go in alone. I’m the one who messed things up. I should be the one to fix it.

Over the last few days, Miguel had grown used to being greeted by ghostly guitar music and Héctor calling his name. Today, he was met with only the rumbling bustle of the train station. Instead, Miguel scanned the crowd, hoping to see the ghost’s transparent head or floating feet. “Héctor?” he called. A few living men turned and glanced at him before shrugging and moving on, but no ghosts.

Suddenly, he felt something cold whoosh by him. He turned to his left to see Héctor materialize right before his eyes. The ghost gave the glass doors a determined look. He sped toward them, phased through, then rematerialized back inside. Héctor let out a frustrated huff and geared up to try again.

“Héctor?” Miguel tried again. “Ghost Héctor? What are you doing?”

The ghost looked up and his eyes widened when he saw who called his name. A trickle of blood at his lips suddenly disappeared. “Miguel!” He rushed forward and threw his arms around his friend. “I am so sorry, Miguel.”

“You’re sorry?” Miguel asked. A cold tingling enveloped him under the ghost’s attempt at an embrace.

“When I saw you were gone, I was afraid I scared you away, but then I started thinking about how awful you felt when I looked into your soul. I spent all night trying to get out and find you but…”

“Héctor, it’s okay. I’m okay,” Miguel said, hearing himself imitate his father’s comforting tones. “I actually came here to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?”

“For not believing you and…” he swallowed, “for not telling you everything.”

“What are you talking about, Miguel?”

He moved toward a bench by the windows. “You might want to sit down if you can. There’s a lot to go over.”

“Okay, you’re starting to worry me with that face,” Héctor said with a nervous laugh as he perched on the bench beside Miguel. “What’s going on?”

Miguel let out a heavy breath and looked at the floor. He wanted to stare at the tiles for the whole confession, but he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Look them in the eyes. It doesn’t count unless you look them in the eyes. He looked up. “First of all, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about being Ernesto’s music partner, and I’m sorry I didn’t believe you wrote your songs.”

“What changed your mind?

“My cousins and I did some research,” he explained. “We found old newspaper ads from Ernesto’s first tour and for every ad up until he left Mexico City, there’s a Héctor listed right next to his name. But that’s not all. You know that songbook I told you about? They’ve actually compared the writing in it with samples of his and it didn’t match. They even compared it with examples of his handwriting from the time the book was written, but it still wasn’t a match. There’s a lot of people who think he lied about writing the songs. I never believed it, but now, with you claiming you wrote them, when you have nothing to gain by it and weren’t even alive when he was famous… it just makes too much sense.”

He went quite for a short moment. “If you knew this already, why did it take you a day to believe me?”

A lump formed in Miguel’s throat. He knew the answer, but it seemed so stupid compared to what the ghost had to go through all these years.

“Because I wasn’t ready,” he admitted. The shame pulled his eyes away. “I’ve looked up to de la Cruz practically my whole life. You see, a long time ago, my great-great grandfather abandoned his family to pursue his dream of becoming a famous musician. He never came back. Ever since then, my entire family hated music. They think music is what tore our family apart. But, I just can’t help it. I love music. It just… The way it makes me feel… When I hear a great song or I play my guitar, my imagination goes wild and I feel a fire in my chest. Not like heartburn or something, but more like… the sun is coming from inside me.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Héctor answered. “It is your passion, a part of you.”

Miguel’s face lit up. “Yeah, and that rush you get when performing, or that feeling when you finally find the right note or the right word… With music, I can say things I can’t say any other way. There’s nothing like it.”

“You are an artist, Miguel.” Warmth radiated from Héctor’s smile. “That is why you feel this way. You can’t help being a musician."

“Well, my family doesn’t want me to be a musician,” Miguel huffed, crossing his arms. “That’s why I idealized de la Cruz so much. I’d hear his songs or watch his interviews and I’d think, ‘He gets it. He would understand how I’m feeling.’ Sometimes, before my cousins found out, I’d think he was the only person in the world who would support my dream. When it became clear he was just a liar and a thief, even when the evidence was staring me in the face, I couldn’t accept it.”

“I see, but you understand there are more musicians in the world than him, ones who share your drive to create.”

“Like you.” Miguel could hardly believe it. He was finally having the kind of conversations he hoped to have one day. He always wanted someone, another musician, who shared his passion, who would understand. Who’d have thought he’d find that in a hundred-year-old ghost?

Then he remembered. He wasn’t here to talk music. He was here on business. “I’ve always wanted someone to talk about this stuff with, but I’m afraid there’s more to tell.”

“Okay, uh, you look serious again…”

Miguel swallowed. There’s no good way to do this. “Héctor, do you remember much about how you died?”

“Let’s see…” He closed his eyes to concentrate. When he opened them again, they glowed white. “I was walking to the train station when I felt a pain in my stomach. I remember falling to my knees, but after some time, the pain passed and I felt fine again. I got up and kept walking. I made it to the station but no one could see me or talk to me. It took me a while to accept it, but eventually I realized I was dead and I was a ghost.” The light went out of his eyes and he turned back to Miguel. “That’s all I remember.”

“What about before? You said Ernesto was there and he gave you a toast.”

“He did, that’s true.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

“You mean that he would move heaven and earth for me?” Héctor answered bitterly. “Instead, all he did was steal my music and try to erase my existence.”

Miguel nodded slowly. Now came the hard part. “Yeah, well, the thing is, Ernesto de la Cruz wasn’t just famous for his music. He also starred in a lot of films.” Does he know what films are? No time to explain, just move on. He quickly pulled up a video on his phone. “In one of them, there’s a character who says something very similar and, look.” He turned the phone so that Héctor could see it.

I would move heaven and earth for you mi amigo. Salud!

Gah! Poison!

As he heard the clip play out, Miguel looked away, hoping to give the ghost some semblance of privacy. He wasn’t sure what the proper protocol was when telling someone they may have been murdered. Would Héctor want privacy? Would he want to talk about it or be left alone? Would he even understand what Miguel was trying to show him?

“Poison?”

Miguel looked back.

The tears on the ghost’s face dried in an instant. “He poisoned me…”

“There’s no way to be sure-”

“No I can be sure.” Héctor’s voice remained quiet. “I remember now, wondering what could have caused my death, if it was something I ate or drank. Now I know. That drink was the last thing I had before I died. Come to think of it, he hid the glasses while he poured it. I thought nothing of it. I never imagined…” His face melted into rage and he rose up toward the ceiling. “How could he do that to me?!”

Miguel opened his mouth then shut it again. What could he say? What was there to say?

The lights flickered rapidly as Héctor continued his tirade. “We were friends! Our whole lives! I never saw my family again! I’ve been trapped here for over a century! All for a few songs? Was that all my life was worth to him?”

“Héctor? Maybe you should…”

“He took my songs! He took my future, my life, my family! He took everything from me!”

The florescent lights overhead burst and the smell of smoke filled the train station. Miguel thought he could feel a sharp shard prick him as it fell. The people around them muttered frantically and the station staff hurried to try to fix the problem.

“Héctor?” Miguel tried again.

The ghost looked down at Miguel. The rage on his face faded and he descended back down to earth, deflated. “I’m sorry, Miguel.”

“No, don’t be. If there were ever a time to blow-up the lights…”

“It’s my fault,” Héctor said. He slumped on the bench, hunched over, eyes toward the floor. “I should have seen Ernesto for what he was. I should have left him sooner. In fact, I never should have left my family at all.”

“It’s not your fault.” Miguel tried to put a hand on Héctor’s back but it went right through. Instead, he held his hand where the specter’s body began and let the cold nip at his hand. “You said you and Ernesto were friends for your whole lives. You should have been able to trust him. He’s the one who betrayed you.”

Héctor looked up. A weak smile tugged at his lip, then disappeared.

“Have you noticed you stopped crying?”

“It seems I have,” the ghost said as he put a hand to his cheek. “Poison tequila, right? I guess, in some way, I always knew.”

“So, no more uncontrollable crying, no more bleeding from the mouth,” Miguel said with an attempt at a smile. “Those must be good signs, right?”

“Maybe,” Héctor looked down at his transparent hands and flexed his fingers. “I know now who I am and why I’m here.”

“But something’s still wrong.”

“Of course there is!” He rose up off the bench. “I just found out my best friend murdered me! I spent a century tapped here! Is this all there is for me?” He sighed and deflated, lowering himself back down again. “I always thought, once I remembered my past, I’d cross over. At least then, I’d get to see my family again. I could tell them how sorry I was that I left, that I stayed away so long. I never came back to them. They never knew I was dead. Do they think I abandoned them? That I didn’t love them enough to come home? They must hate me…”

“Héctor…”

“If I could just see them again, I could tell them that all I wanted was to come home. Every day on that tour, I wished I could be home with them.” He closed his eyes and clutched his hands at his chest. “I love them so much, Miguel. I love them so much that it hurts. I used to never feel anything before but now, it hurts just knowing I may never see them again.”

Miguel chewed his lip as he thought. Héctor had his memories back, at least the important ones, but it still wasn’t enough. Something still had to happen, but what? Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together. “You will,” he said firmly.

Héctor looked up. “What?”

“We’re going to make that happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re going to figure out whatever it takes to get you to the afterlife.” He tried to put his hand on Héctor’s shoulder, but it phased through. He accepted the cold tingles on his hand and he continued. “You’re going to see your family again and I’m not going to give up until that happens.”

Héctor flashed a weak smile, but it quickly dissolved. “But when I first met you, you said you had to go home at the end of the week. How much time do you have left? The days run together in here so…”

“I don’t have to go home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m staying with my grandparents and I’m going to live with them while I go to university. I’m coming back in a few months so I might as well just stay. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s settled. I’m staying in Mexico City.”

A familiar scolding tone sounded from behind him. “What do you mean you’re staying?”

Miguel turned to see his cousins standing behind him. Rosa hand her arms crossed and glared at him in a way that reminded him of Abuelita’s stories about Mamá Imelda. “Rosa?” Miguel said with a shaky laugh. “I thought you guys were outside.”

“We saw the lights flickering and got concerned,” Abel answered. He didn’t look as mad as his sister, but he was giving Miguel a sorry-but-I’m-siding-with-her kind of look.

“Oh yeah, well there’s good news,” Miguel piped up, hoping to add some levity to the situation. “Héctor remembered his death and he was definitely murdered by de la Cruz.” He paused and cringed as he heard what he just said. “I realize that doesn’t sound like good news now that I’ve said it out loud but…”

“Forget it,” Rosa snapped. She softened her glare as she turned her attention to Héctor. “I’m glad you’re getting your memories back, but we need to talk to Miguel real quick.”

Rosa grabbed his hand and pulled him away leaving Héctor floating by the bench. “What’s this about staying in Mexico City?” Rosa said, once they were out of the ghost’s earshot. “Our family expects us back in Santa Cecelia in 2 days.”

“I know but I can’t just leave anymore,” Miguel replied. “Héctor needs my help.”

“With what?” Rosa snapped in a hushed tone. “He remembers his past and he’s still here. What more can we do?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out. I promised him.”

“You promised Abuelita, remember?”

“It’s just a little bit longer.”

“It’s just a little bit now,” Abel cut in, “but then it’ll be a little bit more and a little bit more until you never come home.”

“You don’t know that,” Miguel argued. What was with them? He was only going to stay a few extra days or weeks. Sure, didn’t know exactly how much longer he’d be here, but it wasn’t like…

“Remember Mamá Coco?”

Miguel’s blood went cold as soon as those words left Rosa’s lips.

“Rosa…” Abel said in a warning tone.

She ignored him and pressed on. “Remember how, toward the end, she used to stare at the door and say she was waiting for her Papa to come home? Remember how painful that was for Abuelita to watch? You want to leave her like that? Staring at the door, hoping that maybe one day you’ll walk though it? Maybe it’ll be little Coco waiting for you.”

Her words sent a sharp pain through his heart. “That’s a low blow, Rosa. I’m not going to be like him. I’m coming back, just not now.”

“Maybe you won’t be like him and maybe you will. That’s up to you,” Rosa said sternly with a steady stare. “But if you don’t want to be like him, you need to start by keeping your promises. You can’t just say you’re coming home, you need to do it and you need to do it when you promised you would.”

“Miguel, go home.”

Miguel turned to see Héctor hovering just over his shoulder. “Héctor, I…”

“It sounds like you have an important promise to keep,” he continued.

“Helping you is important.” Miguel felt a lump form in his throat. How could Héctor be saying this? He’d been alone for a hundred years. Was he really willing to go back to that again?

“Miguel, all I want is to see my family again,” Héctor said softly. “I can’t keep you from seeing yours. You might think you’ll never run out of chances to be with them, but the fact is you will, and you never know when that day will come.”

Miguel blinked back the tears forming in the rims of his eyes. “I can’t leave you.”

Héctor smiled and floated down to Miguel’s eye level. “I’ll be alright,” he said, putting a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. “It’s only a few months. I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I?”

“But-”

“Miguel, you’ve already helped me more than I can ever repay. Go, see your family. I’ll be alright.”

Miguel leapt forward and put his arms around his friend as best as he could. “I’m coming back for you. I won’t let you be all alone again, I promise. I’ll help you cross over. You’ll see your family again, whatever it takes.”

Cold tingling enveloped him again as Héctor returned the hug. “I believe you, Miguel. Thank you for all you’ve done.” He released the hug and placed his hands on Miguel’s shoulders. The warmth in his smile far outweighed his freezing touch. “Now go. You can’t keep your family waiting.”

#coco #coco fanfiction #ghost au #ghost hector #hector rivera #miguel rivera #rosa rivera #abel rivera #sweetiepie08 #mwpt #coco ghost au #ghost au coco #sweetiepie writes #sweetiepie fanfiction

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alliswell21 · 6 years

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Peeta the Friendly Ghost

Part Ten:

No!” Katniss planted herself in front of the door with her arms crossed over her chest. “You will not test that machine on my friends!”

“Katniss, dearie… these are specters, ghosts. They have no friends.” Said Plutarch in very condescending tone that neither her nor her mother, or the ghosts liked one bit.

“Listen here, Toupee, Sweetheart may have the charm of a dead slug, and not one diplomatic bone in her body, but she’s the only one here with enough spunk to stand up for us, ‘specters’.”

“If brainless says we’re not doing the machine, then we’re not doing the machine. Thank you very much.” Both ghosts were surprisingly supportive of Katniss suddenly which would’ve been kind of touching if they hadn’t just made her believe she was covered in the most disgusting blood rain ever. She had a hard time believing she’d hold the ghosts’ allegiance for very long before their next prank was formed in wherever they made their thinking, but she’d take anything they were willing to give right them.

“Are you aware that the Lazarus can bring you back from the dead? It can revert the effects of expiration. You can get your bodies back. You’ll be able to live with—“

“Dude! What makes you think we ‘want’ to come back?” Asked Johanna looking positively spiteful. “There’s a reason I haven’t let little miss butler usher me into the other side by fixing my unsolved issues. There’s a reason Haymitch hasn’t clued her in either, even though he’s known what he needs to do in order to move on to the next plane!”

Katniss looked at the troublesome twosome for a moment with narrowed eyes. “You’ve known all this time, and you’ve said nothing?” She asked with an edge of accusation.

“Sweetheart, we know your intentions are pure, but we like being able to haunt people. It keeps our ‘spirits’ up!”

“Seriously? That’s the whole reason why you don’t want to move on, because you like haunting people?” Katniss deadpanned.

“Don’t knock it down, brainless! It gives us purpose.” Affirmed Johanna with a smirk.

“You’re impossible.”

“No. You’re infringing the contract! That’s what you are doing!” Cried out Plutarch dramatically.

“Plutarch… you can’t force them to go along with the experiments. Technically, they don’t exist. Even if they’ve actually signed a contract with you, there’s no way you can compel them to comply.”

“I can call an exorcist. And before you can argue further, let me remind you that this is Snow & Coin’s property and we reserve the rights to ‘cleanse’ the place as we see fit.” There was a serious threat in the man’s words Peeta didn’t wanna test.

The boy had no idea what being castaway from his home would mean, but he was sure he could bargain something that would allow his friends to remain free if he volunteered as a test subject for the Lazarus.

“I’ll do it!” Peeta spoke up. “I’ll do the experiments. Under one condition.” He looked directly at Plutarch. “My friends are free to either stay or leave the manor—“

“No, Peeta!” Katniss cried out lunging forward to block him from the man’s view, but Peeta simple caressed her hair shiny braid for a moment.

“It’s alright, Katniss. I don’t mind helping, plus nobody needs me.”

“I do!” She insisted vehemently. “I need you. You’re my best friend in the world. I can’t let you go.”

“Katniss, I’m an amnesiac 17 year old kid who’s been a ghost for 80 years. Best case scenario, I get another shot at the life my step-mother stole from me. Worst case… I had a great last few months of my death with you.”

“You remembered? Your former life?” Katniss gasped. “When?”

“Oh, Katniss. When I’m around you, it’s like things fall into focus.” Peeta took a minute to collect his thoughts and then elaborated. “There’s a kind of curtain separating the living and the dead. Is thin and gossamer, but it is there because we are not supposed to be in the same place. Sometimes though, it’s like a breeze moves the curtain and we get this glances at the world beyond. It’s fleeting for the most part, but beings like us” he pointed at himself and the other two, “take advantage of it, and hold tight to the ripple, just to so we’re grounded somewhere, instead of wandering aimlessly like the lost souls we are.

“That first day you came, I saw you walk by the ballroom and it was like the curtain had been pulled away completely. I hadn’t seen a living person so sharply before, it’s almost like I can see you in color, and I still can’t explain why or how.”

Katniss cocked her head to the side curiously. “Is that why you followed us that day?”

Peeta nodded cautiously, giving Katniss a sheepish glance under his pale, long lashes. Sometimes the girl couldn’t stop staring at him. Peeta was handsome for a ghost, with a chiseled jawline, snub nose and wavy hair that fell on his forehead and eyes. She would become lost admiring his eyelashes at times, wondering if they ever tangled when he had a solid body, which led to other questions about how he’d look as a living boy that left her breathless and bothered.

“I just wished I could see the color of your eyes. Then I would try to paint them.” Said Peeta quietly.

Katniss nodded. “Of course! Painting was one of your hobbies!” She exclaimed excitedly.

“Awww! Isn’t this sweet? I get it now. Katniss’ little boyfriend is a ghost! That’s adorable, darling! But you could do so much better... with somebody with a pulse maybe? Now stop delaying progress, my pet! Snow & Coin didn’t bring your mother here so she could go coddled you, baby. Let’s make some moolah people!”

“Don’t you talk to my child that way! Haymitch! Jo! Get him!” Hissed Mrs Everdeen surprising everyone.

The ghostly duo didn’t have to be asked twice. Jo simply gave a stout salute to the woman and flew right inside Plutarch’s chest. The man fell on the ground convulsing. Then the proyectile puking started. Haymitch swooped in just a Johanna exited the body like a tag team, and made the man levitate and flop on the ground hard, repeatedly, until they tossed him over to the extravagant Maserati no doubt belong to the corpulent man.

Plutarch finally stood up, shaken, dirty and wild eyed. “Well, I’ve never—“

“Into the car, Toupee!” Yelled Haymitch.

“I’ll have you know this is my natural hair!” Countered Plutarch giving a ridiculous pull of his platinum blond hair.

“Hasta la vista, Chubster!” Cackled Johanna doing her backstroke in the air, “Unless you want more!”

She flew right at the man’s chest, stopping an inch from taking over his body again.

Plutarch was scared of Johanna enough to jump into his car and start the engine, but he peeked his head over the roof and warned the Everdeens. “I may not be able to force these horrid ghosts to do Snow & Coin‘s bidding, but I sure can evict you two ladies from the premises for breach of contract! You have until the end of the month to either comply and produce test subjects, or pack your bags. You decide. End of the month!” And then his tires left skid marks and the overwhelming stench of burning rubber as he peeled off into the sinking sun.

“Momma!” Katniss whispered and ran into her mother’s arms. It had been so long since she felt her mother’s warmth it was breathtaking. “You ran him off! What’s gonna happen now?”

“Now, we gotta go clean that house and start decorating for your Halloween party, honey. We have until the end of the month to decide what comes next. I say, let’s enjoy it until then and leave with a bang!” They smiled together for what felt like the first time in ages while the ghostly duo danced around them. But while the Everdeens has finally found each other, the Friendly Ghost felt like hope was slipping away from him.

#octoberlark #everlark fanfiction #halloween prompts #my fics #peeta the friendly ghost #part ten #only one chapter left!

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deputyscreed · 5 years

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29 - the one where your soulmate’s ghost haunts you when they die. (Yes I’m terrible)

@thefcther // ( soulmate prompts || always accepting )

29. the one where your soulmate’s ghost haunts you when they die.

*Also under a read more because I have no sense of control or when to stop.

There was little way of knowing who your soulmate was until it was too late. Rook heardplenty of stories about it from other people. Some had gotten lucky, had foundtheir soulmate before they died and then when they did pass it was hard but they at least had been able tolive a life together and knew it was their destiny to be together once more. She sometimes wondered if she’d already mether soulmate, but never pursued them because she was a guarded person. The typeto make friends, and get along with people, but never pursue anything behind aone-night stand or friends with benefits type of situation. Not that she evenallowed much of those either. Whenshe gets to Hope County there’s a small part of her that wonders if the personshe was meant to be with was here, in Montana.

It’s a little easier, for that reason, to get alongwith the locals. There are a few that she wants nothing to do with. Drubman Seniorcomes to mind, but overall she falls in easily with the locals and they arehappy to have someone from the city to tease. Though as one mournfully pointedout at the Spread Eagle one night, “You’renothing like what I would’ve figured.” Which she took as a compliment andan insult all rolled into one. There were plenty of outdoors-types in the city,especially in Washington and Oregon and she just happened to be one of them.She easily adapted to the lack of GPS, to spotty cell-service. She’d need tomemorize the routes for working with the sheriff’s department and the ambulancecrew as well. Creed kept active and would often pass early morning fishermen onher runs who got used to seeing her sprinting through the countryside.

A soulmate wasn’t at the top of her to-find list –– to do,her mind supplied in a helpful inner joke, but even if she wanted one then she’d have been hard pressed to locate them afterthe Reaping. Now, more than ever, she’s locked herself away behind the title ofthe Deputy, of Rook who was going to do what she could to help whoever shecould along the way. It’s not long before she gets to Eli’s region and meetsthe Whitetail militia –– introduced by way of Eli cutting her free from Jacob’schair. She’s too disoriented from the bliss, from the music and windinghallways that she was forced to run through over and over again to notice it.The way she so easily leaned into him, let a stranger take on her nearlydead-weight. When she wakes up on a couch, there are a few people talking overher but she remembers his face. More clearly than she did the kid who had foundher lying on her side in a pool of blood.

He tells her to get some rest, and for the first timesince the helicopter crash, she trustssomeone enough to close her eyes and sleep. After learning more about Eli andhis militia, she lingers in the mountains –– it’s the last place she wants tobe after Jacob scrambled her brains around, but she can’t abandon him when he’dhelped her. They get along and work well together with Eli telling her where togo and who needed help the most. She followed his lead, and of course Jacob Seed noticed it. Teased herabout it when he next got her stuck behind bars. Rook tried not to let him knowhow much it scared her –– the idea of Eli being used against her. When Stacibroke her out and showed her the corkboard with Eli’s picture and her namebeneath it with red ink scrawled over it, her heart had plummeted.

She should warn him, should tell him that she can’t betrusted, and she does. Not that Eli listens. He believes in her, has more faithin her than any other person has in her entire life and it makes this all theharder to deal with. Rook ––– Sam –––had never been driven to tears in her life, not that she could remember. Notsince she was a kid, but the thought of Jacob puppeting her like a marionette tokill someone she cared about was enough to make her eyes burn. Only at night,when she was curled up in her sleeping bag, but it was bad enough knowing howmuch he meant to her and how powerless she felt in the wake of Jacob Seed. Soshe fights him, fights the Soldier more than she’s fought anything or anyoneelse in her entire life. Rook struggles against the conditioning and thetrials, but none of it matters. Just like Staci had described. She does it, shecounts out the kills and it ends with a bullet through Eli’s head. There may bea small mercy in knowing it was fast, in that there wasn’t any suffering butshe can’t forget his last words –– the panic in his eyes, but the faith that she wouldn’t pull the trigger.

Then she did anyway.

Samantha Creed might have had a chance, at living, atbeing herself before killing the oneman that had reminded her of the fact. The moment Eli collapses, blood haloing hishead behind him, she feels a profound sense of loss. He’d been important toher, still was, but this went deeper than friendship –– than what might’ve beensomething more. She’s struck mute bythe pain of losing him, her . . . Wheaty’s in her face with a gun, shouting,crying out. Rook won’t stop him from shooting her. Where he is loud, overt withhis pain, she’s silent. Her tears leave tracks down the sides of her face, andTammy is telling her to go to leaveand kill Jacob or else they’d finish the job. Watery eyes dart towards Eli, lyingon the ground, with Wheaty crouched above him and holding his hand. Her mouthdrops open, but Tammy shoves her towards the hatch.

It’s unlike anything she’d have expected to feel. Wasit worse because she was the one to kill him? Did that mean her suffering was goingto be compounded? What sort of hell awaited the person who murdered their soulmate? She has yet to see him, but it may be the song interfering. The red haze thatpaints her surroundings with fire and pain. Jacob Seed coos at her, into herthoughts that she should’ve killed herself –– saved her friends the trouble.Tells her he doesn’t care about dying, but she pushes through. When the lastgenerator is destroyed, the music cut off abruptly, she staggers forward, intofamiliar surroundings and she sees him.Eli is standing there, a heartbroken look on his face and Rook can’t handlethis right now. She can’t. She runspast the specter of Eli and makes her way to the mountain where Jacob takesshots at her from. He’s good, manages to clip her shoulder once and then gets agood shot at her leg. It makes climbing the rockface difficult, but shemanages.

Eli’s at the top, standing behind Jacob and watchingher, brow creased with worry as she lunges at Jacob –– all teeth and feral energy.She’s running on empty and Jacob knows it, easily countering her and pinningher to the ground. “Did you really thinkyou were free?” He asks, “That you wouldn’tmake your sacrifice?” Rookscreams at him then, “Fuck you!” It’s the first time she’s beenso aggressive with him and he blinks, surprised by the sudden ferocity and herdecision to finally speak. Her eyes flick towards Eli who walks towards them,kneeling down and gesturing towards the knife at Jacob’s side. It’s withinreach.

Jacob sees the way her eyes track something that isn’tthere and his lips twitch into a grim smile for a moment. “Oh I get it now. There’s no turning back now deputy, you can try andrun from it, can even kill me, but you know what?” He leans closer and Elinods once. “I’ll always be there insideyour head, and he’ll always be here, haunting you where I don’t.” And shegrabs the handle of the knife, sliding it free before she slams it into Jacob’sside, just below his ribcage. He wheezes out a harsh laugh, doesn’t fight it ––like he expected it and when hestaggers backwards, he looks happy.Or as happy as a man like Jacob Seed could be. Rook sits up, breathing heavily,her own blood soaked into the dirt from where he’d shot her and now mixing withthe red dripping from his side. Jacob might be able to survive the knife wound,if he had left the blade there but he yanks it out and drops it.

Rook watches as the life bleeds from him, and only whenit’s her and the ghost of Eli on the mountaintop does she curl up and cry intothe tops of her knees. Hope County had taken everything from her. Even that which she didn’t know she alreadyhad.

“I’m sorry.” Sheapologizes to the air, to the ghost of a man who deserved better than her. Rookapologizes over and over again, the word mixed up with her sobbing as sheignores the radio call from Tammy asking about what had happened, about Jacob ––the bunker.

#eliwhitetail #MAIL –– ( filled )#FILED UNDER –– ( drabbles )#// why do these prompts get away from me #idk just have this #ALSO YOU MONSTER #also this would make the bunker with joseph #six thousand times worse thanks #eli-whitetail

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cecilspeaks · 6 years

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123 - A Story of Love and Horror, part 3: “Frances”

Who was that whistling, whistling in the dark? Was that you, my love, whistling, whistling in the dark? Welcome to Night Vale.

Frances Donaldson and Nazr al-Mujaheed were faced with a terrible choice. There are times, as humans, it feels like we are given more responsibility than we can handle. It feels as though the world is resting on our backs. And any decision we make could have implications for everyone else in the entire world. But of course, that’s not really the case. The truth is, while we might be able to ruin our own lives, or even a whole bunch of people’s lives, there are few who are ever put in the position where they can make even a ripple in the life of everyone on Earth.

But this was exactly the situation Frances and Nazr found themselves in. She had accidentally entered this Night Vale from a Night Vale in a different universe. If Nazr and Frances stayed together, the two of them could both phase out of reality and cease to exist. A powerful entity, the Brown Stone Spire, could make it so they could stay together safely, but only by destroying the universe she came from, and every person in it. There was no path forward for their love that did not end in horror. There was no path forward without horror that did not end their love.

“It’s clear what we have to do,” said Nazr sadly. “No two people are worth so many lives. We must go our separate ways.” Already he could see the long evenings alone in his office, watching tapes of football plays and trying to recapture the innocent happiness he used to feel doing his job. “It’s clear to you because you have other options,” said Frances. “You’re from this world, and you could find another to love. “I wouldn’t,” tried Nazr, but predictions like this can never carry the weight of truth, because who can predict the heart?” “You will find someone else,” she said. “And me, I will have to live alone forever or risk my own existence and the existence of everyone I entangled myself with. Can I even have close friendships or would those too result in an unraveling? Certainly I would be afraid to risk it, and in that fear I would settle into a bleak loneliness.” He shook his head. “So what are you saying? That we should murder a universe of living beings?” “I’m saying,” she said, “that I love you, and I’d like to proceed from there.” After this argument, they didn’t talk or see each other for a few days. Both of them felt completely overwhelmed by the weight of the decision. Both of them pretended it was a settled question for themselves.

And now corrections. Despite previous reports, the ineffable isn’t real. It’s a joke, a trace. A sandwich left on a park bench. A misunderstood smile from an unfriendly crowd. The accidental arrangement of the sky. The distance from the Earth to the moon. The way grass feels when it gets a little dry. A hand reaching blindly into a drawer. A word spoken once and never again said aloud. A dream which seemed prophetic, but evaporated upon waking. A stain in a shirt that’s source is a mystery. A bird with three missing feathers. A math problem with no possible solution. A signpost to a place which never existed. It’s a trace, a joke. The ineffable isn’t real. We apologize for our previous mistaken report.

During the days apart, Frances and Nazr were not alone. They were not alone first in ways that were mundane and expected. For instance, Nazr had his team, and while he was distracted and morose, he was also determined not to let this affect the chances of his good kids. And so he forced himself to double his efforts when it came to practices. And if any of the team members of faculty thought anything about his behavior during this time, it was that he seemed especially dedicated and focused. And so therefor his relationship must be benefiting him.

Frances had her customers. And while an antique store doesn’t usually bustle, it does have a steady stream. And the goal is to sell a few high-end items a day, along with a good amount of cheap trinkets, so that it all evens out, and she would have enough money to eat for another month. She had friends, too, except now she felt they weren’t her friends. Her friends were back in another universe and the people here looked like her friends, but did not share exactly the same experiences this Frances remembered. She didn’t know if this should matter but felt that it did, and so avoided her friends. Her friends when they talked, thought she must be so focused on her happy relationship that she no longer had time for them, and they felt resentment. They did not resent her personally, but rather resented the situation.

But Frances and Nazr were not alone in a more malevolent way as well. Every evening, Barks Ennui visited each of them. Frances no matter where she went would find him sitting next to her. He would sigh. “Frances!” he would say softly. “Frances!” The voice was almost kind, but his eyes were pivoted toward her unnaturally, giant 2-D sources on a 3-dimensional yellow snout. “Frances, oh Frances,” he would murmur until she slept or thought she slept. He was less gentle with Nazr. With Nazr, he screamed. No words, merely a high keening in the living room as Nazr tried to watch game tapes, or in the bathroom as he washed his teeth. First a mundane quiet and then suddenly a huge dog screaming, cartoon eyes and cartoon mouth both gaping in terror. Why was Barks afraid? He was the specter who was haunting Nazr, but Barks was afraid. This made Nazr even more afraid. “Stop screaming!” he would scream back, but Barks didn’t seem to hear.

And now sports news. Now I’m a big fan of Night Vale football, because I love our town, and our kids who are out there playing, and our fabulous coaching staff. But to be honest, I’m often a little shaky on how the sport works, so I thought I’d try a little experiment. I will now attempt, without looking up anything or consulting anyone lese, to explain the rules of football form memory. Let’s see, the kids enter the field. Uh, there’s a lot of them, they’re all padded up and ready. Uh, “hoorah” they say, and others shout: “let’s get the football!” They are there to get the football. They line up facing each other, uh someone shouts some numbers that they like, in order to get them in a happy headspace before starting the game, and then the football is thrown weird. It could be thrown much easier, but they throw it in a weird way. The quarterback catches the ball, mostly, uh sometimes they miss and that’s a foul. But if they catch it, then they try to sneak it down the field. The ball needs to get going, but no one can know the team is doing it, and so they try to act nonchalant. Oh, and also the slam dance with the other team in order to show that they’re only there to party. And no football is going down the field, mm mm, no way. [whispers] But it is!

The other team figures this out and jumps at the football. Eventually, the football is carried to what is called the “end zone”, because it’s a zone at the end of the field. There it transforms from a leather bag into a victory. There is more dancing, uh you know football is mostly about dancing. There’s some other stuff like sometimes it turns into soccer for a little bit and they bring on a soccer player to do that, but mostly it’s about dancing and sneaking, which are two of my favorite activities. Wow! No wonder I love football. This has been sports news.

Nazr and Frances made the night as romantic as they could. They lit candles, because the risk of house fires is of course very romantic. They had flowers on the table, because the reminder of how plants grow is considered a great aphrodisiac among people who get really revved up about plants. Neither Nazr or Frances were one of those people, but still, it couldn’t hurt. “It’s not too late,” she said. “We could still be together.” This didn’t help the romantic mood. “We couldn’t,” he said. “What would we become if we caused so much loss, just for our own petty happiness?” “Is that what this is?” she said. “Petty?” “No,” he said, “it’s just… what isn’t petty against the span of all of it?” “To me,” she said, “You aren’t. You aren’t.” But he could not be persuaded. She gave up and instead, she kissed him. He had never felt such a kiss, because he had never before kissed anyone out of a quiet and desperate grief. I don’t recommend that context to any of my listeners, but it does make for one hell of a kiss.

Then she left his house. Nazr sat all night with the decision they had made. It was the correct decision. But if that was true, then why did he feel so completely like a person buried under rocks or locked into a cell with no light for months? He felt as though he would never take another free breath of air. There was no longer an other version of himself in his home, but it also felt to him that perhaps there was no one in his home. That the version of himself that was a human being existed only in the past tense, and from here on out, there was only this quotation of Nazr. And out of context excerpt stripped of meaning.

He stood for a while before walking down to his car and pulling it out of the garage. It was almost morning. The Radio Shack wasn’t open and packed with technology-craving customers yet, so he parked there and walked the rest of the way up to the humming Spire. He fell to his knees. This wasn’t his decision to make, but he had already made the decision. “Brown Stone Spire,” he said. “I’ve made my choice. Destroy the other universe. I have to be with her, no matter what.” The Spire did not reply. “Please,” he shouted. He slapped his palms against the hard packed earth again and again until they stung. “Please, I’ve decided! Destroy the other universe!” The Spire hummed to life. “It is done,” said a voice from deep in its core. Nazr, murderer of billions, walked away slowly toward his car.

The ending of our story coming up. But hey, let’s check in on today’s weather.

[“Pieces and Pieces” by The Rough and Tumble]

At first, Nazr walked with shame. But what use, after all, was shame? He had done what he had done so he and the woman he loved could live together in happiness. It would be a waste of everything, the worst of all possible outcomes, if he had agreed to such a monstrous price, only to have any possible renumerative happiness ruined by the guilt of what he had done. He made the decision then and there to leave it behind him. By the time he had reached his car, still waiting in the Radio Shack parking lot as if nothing of import had happened in the intervening minutes. He had set aside the choice as a matter of the past, and started to feel the first spark of joy in his heart.

For the last few weeks, he had felt a strangeness, which he now knew was the feeling of falling out of step with reality. And now, the feeling was gone. He felt human again. He started the car, drove directly to Frances’ house. He couldn’t wait to see her. He had never felt such a complete hunger for another person, but it’s possible no one in all of history had ever paid such a price to be with another person.

And there was that person before him, tending to her garden in the cool morning sun. he did not think about a universe and everyone in it, including another version of Frances who no longer existed. He thought about this Frances. He watched her for a long moment from his car, feeling a blissful lack of urgency. They had a life together. What would a few more minutes be? So he let those minutes pass, watching her work, and then he stepped out of the car and approached her. She looked up with a smile. “Hiya,” she said. “I did it,” he said. “I went to the Spire and I did it.” He realized he was crying, but he was also smiling. She frowned, stood, took a step back. “Did what?” she said. “What do you mean I-,” he said. “I made the choice, you were right.” She held the clippers in front of her, not quite towards him, but not quite not. “Sorry,” she said. “Maybe this is something that the other Frances would understand? I suppose a certain confusion was going to be unavoidable, but I do wish you’d calm down.” “The other Frances? In the other universe?” He did not know what was going on. “Sure,” she said. “Sweet lady, or is that immodest? Anyway, she told me that she asked the Brown Stone Spire to take her back to her own universe where I had been stuck. She said we had gotten mixed up, and things weren’t working out for her here. So she showed me how to come back to my world and she went back to hers. She said at least we’d have a chance at happiness this way. She also said he hoped you were as nice in her world as you are in ours.” She eyed Nazr’s sweaty face, the desperate lean of his posture. “Are you nice, Nazr?” “She went back,” he said. Not a question but a surrender. “To her world. To her… universe.” “Yes,” said a Frances who barely knew him at all. “Now I’m sorry, but I do want to get back to my gardening.” Nazr returned to his car, but had nowhere he wanted to go. He watched the Frances who was not his Frances, but she glared at him, so he drove aimlessly and stopped again. His Frances was gone, along wither entire universe. Before hew as aware of it, he was already shouting . “Please, let me reverse it!” he shouted. “Please take it back!” Barks Ennui, in his awkward 3-dimensional body, was sitting on the passenger seat. “There is no taking it back,” said Barks. “But I will make you a one-time offer. If you like, I will let you join her in oblivion. It is not mere death, it is an absolute ceasing of existence, forever. Blip, and you’ll be gone. Do you want this?” Nazr looked into the dog’s distended eyes. He looked and looked. Two weeks later, he returned to school. He went back to football, re-doubled his dedication to his team. A complete focus on football may not be much of a life to many folks, but it is a life. There are many different kinds of life, and most of them are nothing special at all. Frances, a different woman quite literally from the one we started this story with, continued to run the Antiques Mall. What delighted her most was how objects existed here, in the moment, that everything existed all at once, right now. She loved the present. She thought little about tie. Outside her window, a plane passed overhead. No one watched ist passing.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: We regret to inform you that this entire podcast series has been viral marketing for Dippin’ Dots. We don’t think we made that obvious enough and we’re panicking a little. Please tell someone to try Dippin’ Dots today. We are going to be in so much trouble.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv transcripts #episode 123 #a story of love and horror #part 3: frances

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docholligay · 6 years

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Flicker

The commission I wrote for Jet, based off the idea of Michiru and rei, being Seers, still being able to hear each other for the events of 198. I hope you enjoy!

“What the FUCK ARE YOU DOING????”

Michiru did not actually hear the slap, as it echoed across the room between Usagi’s cheek and Haruka’s hand, overwhelmed as it was by the shrieking, nattering voice of Rei Hino in her mind.

Michiru had never asked to See, and over the course of her childhood and adulthood had considered it just as great a curse as any other laid by her destiny as a senshi, and perhaps more, too--the Seers never had a childhood, never knew rest, not from the day when she stared too deeply into a wave at four years old and saw all the suffering that might befall all the world in a thousand different configurations. Oh, to know the peace of awakening at 14, she thought bitterly. To know the peace of a decade and a half of silence.

“MICHIRU.” Rei was insistent, even in death.

Michiru had been surprised, when Rei died, not that she did not think Galaxia was capable of it, but because she thought Rei herself might not be. For all she gently chided Rei for her rough edges, her inelegant attempts at elegance, Michiru loved her iron will, the way Michiru was pure gold wire in the hands of society, twisted into perfect filigree, but never Rei, Rei would break before she would bend.

What I have to, Rei. Is all she managed as a response, knowing Rei would hear her, wherever she was or wasn’t.

Rei was Rei, and would never understand what it was to protect Usagi by betraying her. She could never have done what she and Haruka had done.

Perhaps that was to her credit.

Oh Haruka. Oh her sweet, wonderful, Haruka, who longed to be Usagi but the world had never let her, who had buried and killed her gentleness even if still it grew and struggled like a rose through the cracks of concrete. Haruka stared at Usagi, her eyes disconnected and unfocused, Haruka herself somewhere, anywhere else.

Seiya yelled. The distraction was welcome, something that felt safe and familiar, Seiya and Haruka sniping at each other, even if it were on another plane, not one that she could love and enjoy, where she’d smile at how silly Haruka could be sometimes, but the one that came at the end of the world, where there was no joy to be had in the moment.

Haruka dodged Seiya nimbly, and her cries echoed off the cold concrete, but Michiru could hardly hear them.

“Michiru, you betrayed all of us! You betrayed Usagi!” Rei’s rage cut through Michiru’s brain like a knife, and for a moment,Michiru wondered how Rei could not know. “You betrayed me!”

Rei did not know, because Rei did not believe in her. Rei did not know, because Rei thought her perfectly capable of turning her back on every one of them.

Haruka sent Seiya across the room with a punch, and Michiru felt it in her own gut.

“Please stop!” Usagi cried, “Please stop doing this!” and Michiru thought she heard it in her own voice.

Haruka’s eyebrow twitched against the lash of Usagi’s fear and sadness,and she tried to hide it with a cold and empty face.

“You’re right. Let’s end it now.” There was detachment there, but all Michiru could hear was the sadness of it.

“Michiru Kaioh,” she could practically feel the heat coming off Rei, the smoke of her picking at the edges of Michiru’s ocean, “if you kill Usagi, I will haunt you for the rest of eternity, and you will never know peace from me, and--”

Rei, I have never known peace, not even for one day. She lapped a wave over the flame, and it worked, if for a moment.

Michiru raised her hands in match to Haruka’s.

“Let’s.”

The world exploded and the world fell down, and for one moment, the way things looked matched the way Michiru felt. The Starlights had jumped around Usagi, passing brave for a moment, though she and Haruka’s attacks had gone around them, as they were always meant to do. She wondered, for a moment, if there was one among them who Saw, too. She certainly hadn’t felt the pull for one of them, hadn’t seen it in the way any of their eyes moved moved in the dark.

If they Saw, they did not See much.

The cold aluminium of air ducts surrounded them, looking down where Usagi begged and cried again for the fate of the world, and how she would never give up on it.

She would not be much of a queen, if she ever lived to that. She would be queen until the next threat came down, with all of them lying dead in the ground, only the Starlights to protect her.

“You don’t know that, Michiru! Usagi is going to beat you and Haruka and Galaxia and those USELESS ASSHOLES ARE GOING TO PROTECT HER.”

Perhaps. She did not listen to Galaxia’s cruelty as she berated every inch of Usagi’s belief,, simply looked over at the cold sense of heaviness in Haruka’s eyes, the way her shoulders were drawn back not in pride but in military duty, The way she held herself stiff and ready for what came next.

Michiru gently touched her hand to Haruka’s, and Haruka gave it a light squeeze before they resumed standing at attention.

If a spirit could be said to pause, Rei would have done that, and Michiru could nearly feel her try to put it all together. “Oh you didn’t tell me anything!” she said to someone Michiru could not hear, before turning her attentions back to Michiru. “What do you think you’re doing?? Are you going to kill Galaxia, is that your plan, WHY DIDN’T YOU LET ME IN ON THE PLAN I WANT TO KILL GALAXIA, MICHIRU.”

It will never work, not really. We are bound to die. I have watched the possibilities flicker and be snuffed, like candles against the wind through a sill. But I let Haruka do it, even if it is all for naught. I let Haruka do it, because I need her to believe she has done everything she can. That she hadn’t given up, in the end.

“And you were willing to let Hotaru and Pluto die for that?” But her voice was softer this time, even in Michiru’s head.

I want her to die a hero. I want her to know peace.

“You might win.” But she sounded as if she did not believe it herself, the way she reassured Usagi so many times before they had headed into an impossible battle, as Galaxia laughed and the thunder crashed over their heads, that foreign black lightning coming down around them.

That is my greatest hope. Then the bracelets will cease effectiveness, and we will die. But she will die good. She tried not to think on it too much, hoping Haruka could not feel that it was true, as her jaw locked fiercely it was only the specter of what they had and would do, and not the imagination of her own death. But she knew it was true. She had Seen it. Even if they win, they were finished, and Usagi would be quite alone.

“Does Haruka know you’ll die either way?” Rei put it forth carefully and quietly, as if afraid Haruka might be at any risk of hearing her.

Rei?

“Yes?”

What does it feel like?

Michiru did not press for the answer, and Rei did not quickly offer it as Michiru raised her hands to the sky, in perfect concert with Haruka, and there was a small part of her that felt a rush of joy that at least, in this, she could feel what it was to move with Haruka.

She and Haruka looked up at Galaxia, the wind off the sea perfumed as it blew back their hair, and together, perfectly matched, again, they sent a barrage toward Galaxia.

Haruka’s hand gently on her back as she guided Michiru around the dance floor, Michiru’s dress billowing out behind her as their steps fell together perfectly, as if they had been born wired into each other’s minds. Her back against Haruka’s as they faced down an enemy, never having to question which way Haruka might move. The way Haruka’s hand found hers in the dark.

The way they sent out angry discs of light, so perfectly timed it was nigh-impossible to tell which from which.

They were together, and Michiru could rest in that.

She heard Haruka gasp next to her, and it took her from the treasure of her memories.

Galaxia stood, no worse for the wear, and she laughed as she looked down at Michiru and Haruka. She was amused. She was pleased.

“HIT HER AGAIN!” Rei’s voice took on a fever pitch, “MICHIRU, HIT HER AGAIN! YOU’RE STILL ALIVE!! SAILOR NEPTUNE!!!”

But Rei’s voice was just one note of all the notes flooding her mind in a discordant and unloveable symphony. Haruka would die. Haruka would die knowing she had utterly failed. That she had killed Pluto and Hotaru, that she had let Minako die, that she had done all of it for nothing.

The great wave of her own destiny and her own present struck her, and Michiru fell to her knees.

“Get up!” Rei continued to bark at her, but Michiru just sat staring and the cold metal in front of her, and trembled. “Get up get up get up get up!! Michiru! You have to do something! Get up get up get up get up get up! YOU ARE OUR ONLY HOPE MICHIRU!! Stand up and--what about Haruka?? FIGHT FOR HER MICHIRU COME THE FUCK ON!!”

There was a mix of anger and sadness in her voice, Michiru would have noticed, if she could be bothered.

“I suppose,”Michiru did not look up at Haruka, “this is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

Haruka’s voice started in her throat for just a moment. “We--” she cleared her throat, and her brow furrowed in intense thought “We’ve sullied our hands, with the blood of betrayal, and we will never soar again. Our wings are freshly-clipped, and the sky has turned black, and we will never soar again. I--”

Galaxia laughed, “It really was all pointless, wasn’t it? Killing your friends? Turning on your princess? Everything you did, everything you tried, none of it mattered, all of it was futile.”

Haruka did not look at Galaxia, just took a shuddering breath and continued, “I--I--”

“If this moment be ever my cross to bear, be I even condemned to the depths of hell, I would hap’ly take your hand, and never soar again.” Michiru finished her cobbled-together poem, recognizing it for the gift it was, what Haruka had tried to give her, the silk lampshade she had tried to throw on the ugly bare bulb of their defeat.

Haruka gave a weak laugh. “You’re better at that than me.”

“You are the only poet I have ever studied in passion.”

“Michiru…” Rei’s voice was soft and warm now, and in a way, that scared Michiru more than anything, more than the strange sensation creeping across her body, more than the hard cold metal against her legs, just the knowledge that Rei felt soft and gentle was enough to send ice through her veins.

“Why did you do this??” Usagi’s voice was high and shrill and pierced the bubble of the moment.

Haruka stumbled a moment, her stone of her giving way into a slide, but she managed a smile. “It’s what we do, kitten.”

“We were condemned from our very birth by our role as Senshi.” Michiru collapsed in a way that still seemed graceful onto the flat rooftop.

Rei gave a chuckle, “Leave it to you to give a parting shot.”

She will never understand it enough for it to be personal.

“You know, she--okay, you’re right, she won’t.”

Rei admitting she was right. Another cause for fear. She tried to catch her breath as she felt herself begin to break apart, as she felt the small quiet desperation of death fill her.

“I thought you two had turned on all of us!” Usagi cried out, and though Michiru could not see her, could not feel her, she felt Haruka wince.

You all did.

“I should have known.” There was something about Rei’s voice that made her seem near, that made her seem closer than they had been before.

Strange, how it took death to make Michiru realize she had wanted Rei closer. Haruka and Seiya argued again in the distance, and if the pain had not been shooting through every rapidly-dissolving nerve, it might have brought a comfort.

“I’m sorry, Michiru.”

An apology. It would have brought fear, if Michiru could have known fear anymore.

I forgive you. Michiru was surprised to find that she truly did. How could she hold it against anyone, to not trust her? How could she expect to be given to her what she never gave to anyone else?

“Are you scared, Michiru?” Haruka’s voice, traveling around and down the ledge of aluminium and iron, reassuring and gentle, the girl should have, could have been, asking herself as much as Michiru.

It was the end of her life. Michiru was allowed to want.

“I want to touch you, Haruka.” She allowed all the feelings, all the longing and desire and pain and love, to fly free into the cool air.

Michiru tried to move, knowing somehow, beyond anything she had Seen or seen, that Haruka was moving toward her. But there was nothing. Her body was spent, and she could find nothing, no strength within her, not even for the only thing she had ever truly wanted, the only thing she had been allowed to have.

But maybe there was another strength within her. Alongside her.

Rei! Rei! Rei, I need you to help me! Please! It was desperate and it was wild and it was so unlike her that it would not have surprised her if Rei had not recognized it as hers. Rei, please! Rei--

“Of course I will, Michiru,” She felt a small burst of strength, “I’ll help you the whole way.”

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crimsxnflxwerz · 6 years

Text

I would like that [shyan oneshot]

I would like that summary: the third person who knew Ryan was trans was the ghost that haunted his apartment. rating: teen+ fandom: buzzfeed unsolved pairing: ryan bergara/shane madej warnings: mentioned [murder/death/drug use/stalker/abuser] tags: ghost!shane, trans!ryan, ghost boyfriend, lol, weird universe notes: this is just a random little thing that wouldn’t leave my head no matter how hard i tried so I wrote it down to give myself some peace. have fun guys! this makes no sense, so fair warning!

Ryan could count the number of people who knew he was trans on one hand.

The first person that he counted would be himself, of course. He’d known ever since he’d heard the word. Whether it was from some botched argument about gender roles or a fresh criticism of Rocky Horror Picture Show, he couldn’t remember, but ever since that he’d been sure that was what he was.

The second person to find out was his brother, Jake. He’d always had a good relationship with his brother, and that didn’t change when Jake had grabbed Ryan’s laundry for him when he still lived at home and accidentally witnessed Ryan’s binder. Jake actually didn’t even realize what it was at first, thinking it some kind of cheap sports bra, and Ryan figured this accident was as good as any to use to come out to him.

It seems horrible to say, but his parents don’t make this list. Ryan moved out of his parents house after graduating college and getting a job with a company he interned with. When he was safely away with his parents, he legally changed his name, started T shots, and got top surgery. He still spoke to his parents, but it was usually over the phone, and if they noticed a change in his voice, they refused to mention it.

The third person who knew about it wasn’t even really a person at all, but rather it was the ghost that haunted his apartment.

Sounds crazy, and for a while, Ryan thought he was. He went to therapy briefly,not for any depression, just to help him through his transition. He figured maybe the stress was getting to him, or the T affected his brain somehow, but couldn’t find any definitive evidence that linked these things to what he was experiencing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in ghosts, but rather, now that he was actually the subject of a haunting- he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

There were many things to tip him off that it was a ghost in his house and not just random happenstance that seemed paranormal. The first thing that happened was one night he had been drifting off while watching television on his couch. Behind him, on his kitchen counter, his microwave had randomly turned on. He jumped up and turned it off, before any damage was done, but afterwards just blankly stared at it. He had just gotten the thing, brand new. It shouldn’t have been acting up yet. He figured he’d check it out later.

The second thing happened after he adopted his first dog, a dachshund named Dori. The first few weeks with her were eventful, but more so in the new puppy way than haunting. After he potty trained her, he let her sleep with him at night, making sure to leave the door open in case she got hungry or needed to pee.

One night, he woke to find Dori softly growling, while still curled up next to him. He rubbed his eyes and tried to look over to the door she was facing to see if something was there, but he couldn’t see anything. All of a sudden, however, the door slammed shut, and he was snapped right out of his groggy state. He stared in horror and fear at his bedroom door. He didn’t go to sleep again that night.

The third thing to happen was something that continued to happen regularly after that. Ryan would wake up, go into the bathroom, and take a shower. After coming out, he noticed that there was some form of scribbling on his mirror, as if someone had run their fingers through the steam. It never really spelled anything, at most creating a dumb shape or something. At first, Ryan was scared of it, but then he figured it was harmless, so he took it as just a normal part of his life.

All these things eventually prompted him to do some research on his apartment. At first, he didn’t find anything, but that was just from surface level research. He began to get to know his neighbors, and they were fairly quick to open up. Apparently, a man had lived there before him. He had worked as a freelance website designer, but was also known to frequent the local bar and sing or do stand up comedy. His neighbors were deeply saddened when they found out that he had passed away.

His name had been Shane, and he overdosed on sleeping pills at 35. He had no family or friends close enough to him to confirm anything, but police ruled it a suicide.

After this, Ryan tried communicating with him. He purchased a Ouija board to ask him some questions, but he either must’ve done something wrong or Shane wasn’t too keen to cooperate, because nothing happened.

Ryan forgot about it for a while, forgot about him. After a few weeks of no more activity, something else happened. Ryan came home one day to find Dori cowering near the front door. Everything in his apartment was okay, but in his bathroom, the medicine cabinet looked like it just exploded. The door was handing off it’s hinges, bottles, pills, liquids, band-aids, everything scattered across the floor. Ryan was glad that Dori was too scared to eat anything, but he wondered what had caused the outburst.

He tried reaching out to Shane again, and this time, the Ouija board spelled out “pills” and then stopped working with him.

The interaction basically confirmed that the ghost in his apartment was, in fact, Shane. For whatever reason, he was unwilling to talk to him. Except to tell him his non-explanation as to why he destroyed his medicine cabinet.

He figured that before he left for work that day, he’d taken a pain killer to help his headache- something he did very rarely, since he didn’t normally get headaches.

Maybe it bothered Shane, considering how he died.

Anyways, Ryan knew that Shane knew that he was trans. That was his third person. How did he know this? Well, the scribbles on his mirror after each shower slowly became a dialogue between them. Shane would normally leave something for him to see (like “dog?”), and Ryan would reply with an answer (like “Dori”) and then leave the bathroom.

One day he stepped out of the shower to something quite comical. It was a drawing of him, albeit crude, and there was an arrow pointing to his crotch with a question mark at the end. Ryan rolled his eyes playfully, and wrote “I’m trans” on the mirror. The next thing that happened really spooked him.

Slowly, new words started forming in the condensation, “trans?” Ryan stared in disbelief for a moment, before he recovered and wrote, “female transitioned to male”.

There were no more responses after that, but Shane didn’t go away.

Through his time living there, he began to warm up to Shane. The fact that he was regularly interacting with a spirit was wild enough, but that spirit knew and understood that he was trans as well was even more outlandish. He couldn’t imagine telling anyone about it. This would be his secret- but he was fine with that- he was used to keeping secrets.

Sometimes he would wake up to his coffee already made, or the news on. One time he woke up to find that Shane had literally picked out his clothes for the day.

Ryan began to get more and more curious about the specter living with him. He asked around and found out Shane’s last name, and scoured the web for any information about the man. He even frequented the bar that Shane had gone to in his life to perform stand up. Some people knew Ryan as the guy who moved into Shane’s old apartment, and they were pretty willing to share stories about the dude. Apparently he had lots of friends.

So why did he kill himself? Why did he overdose on those sleeping pills? Was it an accident? Ryan realized that he was being nosy, but he had to know. It was killing him to not know.

Maybe he was being too invasive, since not long after he started researching and compiling information, things started happening in his apartment. He’d get out of the shower to the word “no” written all over the mirror. He’d come back to his apartment, only to find his lights flickering or his fridge door opening and closing. Sometimes, he found Dori growling and barking at empty corners, and random spots in his apartment freezing cold.

Was Shane angry that he was looking?

Ryan set up some candles to try out the Ouija board again, but each time he lit one, he would go on to the next to find the first one had already gone out. He tried several times, the candles getting put out each time, before he gave up. He cursed at the room.

“You don’t want to talk to me? Fine! Fuck you!” he shouted, making Dori whimper next to him.

That night he dreamed of a tall, lanky figure with soft features, and messy hair. He had warm, brown eyes- calloused hands- rough five o-clock shadow. The figure in his dream slipped into bed next to him and wrapped him up in a hug. He felt warm as he slept. When he woke, the space next to him was still warm like someone had slept there. It couldn’t have been Dori, since she always slept at his feet.

So maybe Ryan had developed a little bit of a crush.

Even though it was impossible. How could he have a crush on a ghost? Though, the ghost knew more about him than anyone else in his life. Shane knew how Ryan liked his coffee, he knew that while Ryan found it hard to wake up early, he enjoyed the soft silence before dawn. Shane knew that he sang pop songs in the shower, and that he preferred shampoo that smelled like lilacs, and sometimes when he was cooking he did a little dance while he waited for something from the oven.

And Shane knew that he was trans, and he respected that.

Not that he’s sure what Shane would or could do if he didn’t respect that. He was a ghost after all.

When he came home from work a few days later, he found something tied onto Dori’s collar. It was a little note. He opened it. It read: “talk ?” in a messy scrawl he recognized from the many conversations on his bathroom mirror he had.

He smiled and brought out the candles and Ouija board and got everything ready. He opened a channel and put his hands lightly on the planchette. He moved the object over Hello to welcome Shane, and then let it move freely.

“Sorry,” Shane spelled out. “End like me.”

“Were you afraid I’d end up like you?” Ryan asked. He was sort of confused, because he wasn’t really depressed or anything. Ever since he moved out of his parents house, he felt the stress of hiding his identity wear off. After top surgery, he felt even better. The only thing stressing him out right now was Shane.

The planchette moved to the yes on the board. Ryan shook his head.

“I’m fine, Shane,” he reassured him. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Not depressed.” Shane spelled out. Ryan paused for a moment. He wasn’t really sure what he meant by that. Did he mean to say that he knew Ryan wasn’t depressed- or had he not been depressed? Did that mean that what happened to him wasn’t a suicide?

“Did...Did you...” Ryan started, hesitating. “Did you kill yourself?”

There was along, silent moment where the planchette didn’t move at all. Then it slowly moved to the no in the corner. Ryan felt like his heart had stopped. It had been the usual story, the funny guy with no family killed himself in his apartment alone one night. He hadn’t really found out anything about the cops doing any blood tests or anything- only an empty pill bottle on the bedside table. He figured that kind of thing wouldn’t have been released anyways, but maybe it was never done. Maybe they saw this lonely, dead man and figured it was a suicide.

Was Shane still here because he had been given no justice in death?

“What happened to you?” Ryan asked, even though he knew the ghost wouldn’t be able to give him any long answers. He stayed quiet, however. The planchette remained still for a moment longer, before Ryan’s laptop that had been sitting on the coffee table near the couch flew open and turned on. Things were being typed into the search bar, and eventually a social media account was brought up. It was a dating website profile. Ryan let go of the planchette and moved over to look at it closer.

Shane Madej. Age, 35. Male. Hey, my name is Shane. I’m really just looking for a chill relationship with someone I have some stuff in common with. I love cartoons and video games, so I’m kinda nerdy, but I’m not opposed to a night on the town, or a romantic dinner and movie. I’m obsessed with popcorn, and just a foodie in general. If interested, please hit me up, maybe we could meet.

There were lots of comments and likes on his profile, but they were all from a long time ago- a few years in fact. It looked like the account had been inactive for at least a year before Shane had passed away. The most recent comments, however- just weeks before Shane had died, were the most disturbing. They were from a man named Zach Smith, a white man with dark hair who looked to be in his forties.

Zach Smith Hey babe, want to catch a drink with ol Zach-y sometime? I’ll make it worth your while.

Zach Smith Hey, answer me sweetheart, or you’ll regret it, I promise.

Zach Smith Oh darling, I’m obsessed with you. I know where you live, I saw you park outside your apartment today and I almost just went up and grabbed you.

The comments went on, but Ryan couldn’t stomach them any longer. Ryan looked back at the planchette that started moving on it’s own. It spelled out found me and hurt and drugs. Ryan felt his stomach flip as he glanced between the Ouija board and the dating website. He clicked over to Zach Smith’s profile, and immediately saw that it was a fake account with a false name. He turned back to the board again and saw that Shane was spelling something else out.

“Hate that they think I wanted to die,” he spelled out. “afraid of drugs afraid for you.”

“Why are you afraid for me?” Ryan asked.

“Trans boy,” he spelled out. Ryan felt a little cold at the explanation. He sighed.

“Just because I’m a trans boy?” he asked, sounding a little annoyed.

“I was gay.” the planchette spelled. Ryan let out a soft ‘oh’ upon realizing the connection. His killer had been preying on gay men looking for relationships online, and that was how he’d found Shane in the first place.

Ryan wondered if he should turn over this information to the police. But, It wasn’t as if Shane’s case was any kind of mystery to them. He knew the dark truth, but no one else did.

“Is there anyone you want me to tell?” he asked Shane. The planchette didn’t move. Nothing moved. Dori started barking, but after Ryan reached out and pulled the puppy into his lap, the candles were blown out. He figured this session was over. Maybe Shane could only speak for so long before he got tired.

Either way, a lot of information had been exchanged today.

That night, when Ryan slipped into bed, he waited for the dip in his mattress and the warm arms around his waist to fall asleep. Peaking over his shoulder, he could just make out the angle of a broad shoulder, and he felt safe.

A week later, he came home to a note on his fridge. it read: nobody. He could tell it was written by Shane. At first, he wasn’t sure what it meant, then he remembered his question from the other night about telling people. Shane was killed, and he didn’t want anyone to know. Ryan wondered if Shane was estranged from his family because he was queer, too. He wondered if Shane just didn’t want to reopen old scars with new information about his death. Whatever the reason, it was Shane’s decision, so he respected it. It wasn’t like the police would believe him if he told him he could talk to Shane from beyond the grave or anything.

“I wish you weren’t dead, though,” Ryan said out loud to himself. “Although, if you never died, we never would have met.”

After the revelations, weeks went by without any communications from Shane. He attempted to talk to him several times, but after still only getting radio silence on his fifth attempt, he decided to stop trying. He knew Shane was still hanging around, he hadn’t moved on or anything yet, he just wasn’t talking to him. Ryan still felt the familiar presence join him for bed at night, and the blanket of security he always associated with Shane meandering about the house moving things around. He wondered why Shane wasn’t talking anymore, but he was okay with it.

He was starting to really settle into the neighborhood- gaining more and more friends- and he’d even invited his brother over to his apartment a few times. His job was the best thing ever, he had fun everyday, and worked with amazing people. Though, no matter how many people he met and became friends with, a little nagging voice in the back of his head would always remind him of Shane. He wondered how different the man would’ve been while he was alive. Ryan had heard plenty of funny or wild stories from everyone who had known Shane, but hearing a story and living one where two different things.

A year went by, and Ryan was finally looking like the kind of male he wanted to look like. He started working out to give his body a more defined shape- lifting, jogging, stuff like that. He wasn’t super obsessed with working out or anything, but he did enjoy it as just a little past time thing to stay in good health. He also loved checking out his own flexing in the mirror sometimes, although he would never admit it.

It was the one year anniversary of the first day Ryan had moved into his new apartment. Dori was bigger, and Ryan was thinking of getting another dachshund to keep her company (and just because he wanted another one). That day, he came home from work and popped himself some fresh popcorn, making more than he usually made just for an extra little treat. He plopped down to watch Netflix on his tv, when he heard something. It sounded like a shifting noise, like someone was shuffling around, and it was coming from his bedroom.

He put his popcorn down on the coffee table and grabbed a skateboard that he had resting up against his hall closet. He carefully approached his bedroom, seeing that the door was ajar. He crept up and paused at the door momentarily, taking a shaky breath in, before slamming the door open. Inside his bedroom, there was a tall, lanky man, back facing him. He was wearing a worn, jean jacket and black pants, but no shoes. His brown hair was shaved on the sides, long on top, and unkempt- some pieces sticking straight up dramatically.

As soon as he saw him, Ryan screamed. The man spun around, the motion almost comical, and he started screaming as well. Ryan, spooked, swung the skateboard at the stranger, hitting him so hard that it cracked. Although, he’d only managed to hit the length of the man’s arm, even though he was aiming for his head. He was too short.

The man started speaking, or rather, shouting.

“Wait! Wait!” he begged. “Wait a second! Ryan, wait a second!”

“How do you know my name?” Ryan demanded, dropping the skateboard, but not relaxing in the slightest. He looked as if he were about to bolt.

“It’s me-” he said. “It’s Shane. I’m Shane. You can see me now.”

“It’s-- It’s uh--” Ryan stuttered, still feeling shell shocked. He looked the man up and down. Now that his brain wasn’t in danger mode, he could tell that the man looked very familiar, similar to the man he’d seen in all the pictures. From the warm, brown eyes, to the worn jean jacket, to the unkempt hair and soft stubble framing his face. He was tall, and awkward, like he heard about.

But-- he was right there- he was standing right there and Ryan had hit him with a skateboard, not passed through him, actually hit him! This person was a solid, real human.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” Ryan said bluntly. He didn’t mean to sound so rude, or cold, but he was confused. Wasn’t Shane dead? Hadn’t he been killed? Was his happy life just a dream? Was this a dream?

“Well,” Shane said, patting himself down. “I was dead. I might still be?”

Ryan felt some of the tension in him melt away. Just a tiny trickle, at the smile that pulled Shane’s face, and he sensed himself smiling back- if only just slightly. He shakily reached out a hand for Shane to touch, to see if he was really real- if he was really solid. Shane saw this, and reached out as well.

When their hands touched, Ryan felt it, and he was warm. The calloused pads of Shane’s fingers traced over the lines in Ryan’s hand, sending shivers all through him. He stared for a heartbeat or two at Shane, completely speechless.

“You’re warm...” he said. “You’re alive?”

Shane didn’t move or response to the question- as if this all was some kind of illusion- as if the wrong movement would shatter it all. Ryan payed that no mind, he had one thing in mind that he wanted to do.

He moved forward and wrapped his arms around Shane’s torso before the other man could protest. Ryan pressed his ear hard against the man’s chest and listened. Against his ear, he heard, without a doubt, a heartbeat. After a moment, he felt Shane’s awkward arms come down around him, and it was like all of those night they shared Ryan’s bed, but this time- Shane wasn’t cloaked in darkness. This time, it was real, and Ryan could hug him back.

“H-How?” Ryan asked softly, feeling a weird, overwhelming emotion bubble up in him. Confusion, sadness, happiness, and love.

“I don’t know,” he said. “One moment, I was about to toss around your pillows for something to do, the next moment, I could see my reflection in your mirror.”

“You were gonna mess up my bed?” Ryan laughed, but it sounded a little choked, as a few tears ran down his face.

Shane moved his hand to wipe away the tears.

“Yeah, I’m haunting you after all,” he said, although his voice was softer now, his arms pulling Ryan closer- tighter- “isn’t that what ghosts do?”

“I guess it is.” Ryan said, and closed his eyes. He felt safe. “But you’re not a ghost anymore. What are you gonna do now?”

“Idk,” he muttered. “become a human again?”

Ryan laughed, Shane joining in, too. “You can stay here if you’d like.”

Shane paused for a moment, before running his hand through Ryan’s hair. “I would like that. No- I would love it.”

-the end(?)-

#wow this garbage #amazing #shyan #skeptic believer #buzzfeed unsolved #idk #lol #random shit #my fic #my writing

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sabraeal · 7 years

Text

The Most Perverse Creature in the World: Part 2

No one has ever taught you how to be Countess.

Ah, but that is not exactly true. Though your mother died in your infancy, your father spared no expense on tutors. They taught you how to cross your ankles instead of your legs, how to turn a phrase politely when you loathed the topic – or the speaker, how to balance the accounts while your eyes skim over entries for gifts your husband purchased, but you never received. Oh, you have received an education, but no one has ever taught you to be an authority.

You think, not kindly, as the door to your husband’s rooms – your rooms, now – close behind you, they would have rather broken your legs than teach you how to stand. And before you had been strangled in these widow’s weeds, you had been not content, but…complacent. What need had you with legs when your husband had such a fine pair?

It is strange how mere months can make a child out of who you used to be.

Your apartments are not lavish, but well-styled, though not in your way. It does not match the rest of Bederin either – your husband had been a bachelor for many years before your marriage, and set in his ways. Your own bedchamber and parlor had been yours to do with as you please, and your private garden as well, but the rest of your house had been left as you found it after your honeymoon, all muted colors and dark wood. Sometimes it seemed as if there was not a single lamp that could cut through the gloom. But your husband had said he had liked it, that he missed the subdued décor of Bederin when he was at court, and you had obeyed his wishes, no matter how many times you had fantasized about ripping the paper from the walls with your own hands.

But it did not seem he cared for it here. The room is airy, windows open and draperies make of rose and cream gauze, fluttering prettily in the breeze. Even here you smell a hint of salt; the sea is not close, a half-day’s ride at the least, but when the wind blows from the east it makes you remember easy summers by the shore, bare feet sinking deep in the sand with skirts tucked into your sash, too young for anything but a half-hearted scolding.

Even fond memories do not take out the sting of seeing the bedroom. Your hands clench into fists, nails biting at your palms.

So this is where it happened.

A breath shudders from your lungs. A walk. A walk in the gardens to clear your head, that sounds…prudent.

You hardly get to the door when it swings open, conveying a sort of enthusiasm that seems glaringly out of step with your mood. You resolve, with an even breath, not to hold it against the happy creature that slips into your room.

“My lady!” Her smile is not subdued, as most domestics are taught; you suppose she is too young for a lord to have shown her the consequences of such ready eagerness. “I hope you have found the room to your satisfaction.”

You mean to say yes, for that is what you are supposed to say. It is right on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall off –

“No,” your mouth says instead, your heart careening into your throat. “The bed offends me.”

Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, unsure. She is not used to someone making demands. They probably sent her here because a widow was to be easy. “Oh, should I – should I change the sheets?”

“No.” You have committed to this now. There’s no reason for you to be cowed now, for you to live with this…effrontery. “The whole of it is unsatisfactory.”

“You want…” The girl stares. You wonder if she has had any training at all. “You want to have a whole new bed?”

You lift your chin as if you are accustomed to being taken seriously. It occurs to you that you most likely resemble no one so greatly in this moment than your late great aunt. “I am going to take a walk in the gardens. When I return, I expect I will see something more to my liking in its place.”

As the days pass, you reflect often on how your marriage at Bederin has prepared you for your widowhood at court: you are invited nowhere, and wherever you walk, eyes slip off of your person, as if you are merely a shadow that haunts these halls. Bad fortune to see a specter in widow’s weeds, your companions had whispered to you under the sheets, when you were still young enough to have them. It means death will follow you.

The gardens are lovely, and extensive, but after a few afternoons spent wandering its winding paths, you have seen all it can offer. It does not surprise you that you receive no invitations – you are, after all, deep in mourning – but that not a single lady visits, not even those gentlewomen, jockeying for favor among the women of the peerage…

That cuts deeper than you expect.

Your maid – Mayu, she tells you, more serious when you return that first day – is little help as well, far too inexperienced to know what sort of diversions a woman of your station. You ask her to bring you books from the library, and instead of philosophers or volumes of literature, she brings you novels. Salacious ones, where grown women run around in night rails – night rails – and swoon on moors. Stuff your father would have never allowed in his house, and for good reason.

It rots minds, he would say tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. Women should only read improving literature.

If it makes your skin heat and your heart race as you read of two bodies entangled in sheets; if it makes you miss, if only for a moment, the touch of a man, well – no one is around to see it.

“My lady,” Mayu starts one morning, as you take a late breakfast. “Are you here on holiday?”

Why anyone would want to vacation in a snake nest is beyond you, but you answer, “No, I am here to fill Bederin’s council seat.”

Mayu fumbles with the samovar, the clumsy girl. “The council?”

You wish everyone would stop being so surprised at the idea. “Yes. Bederin is mine, and so is it’s seat.”

“Then…” Your maid fusses with the sugar, trembling hands making the spoon chime against the bowl. “Why are you not in council now?”

You arrive with the wrath of storms at your back, veil and crape billowing out like thunderheads in your wake, and when you arrive, twenty some-odd heads swivel towards you, the king’s not included. He merely continues sipping his tea, looking for all the world like he expected you to come in here like thunder itself and make yourself known.

Arluleon was not of the same mind.

“Lady Bederin,” he says, displeasure dripping from his scowl. “I did not think you would join us.”

“Countess Bederin.” You are already tired of saying it. “And perhaps you would have, if you had sent me a summons.”

His jaw sets, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for a fight. Oh, how you long to be a man, so you might give him one. “I assumed you would still be resting. Travel is quite wearing.”

You hear how that sentence is half finished, how he means to say, for one of your sex. You are glad that you must wear your veil, for oh, oh what a beastly face you make. How you long to wrap your hands around his thick neck and choke the words from him.

“I am much recovered,” you say instead, words forced out through your teeth. All the while, the king sips at his cup, bored.

“Ah.” You expect Arluleon to say something like, excellent, or as it should be, or any sort of pleasantry, but instead he says, “Bederin’s seat is there.”

It is, in the end, all you need from him.

#ans #my fic #haruka x reader #second person #enemies to lovers #slow burn #please enjoy some period feminism #because that's how i roll #apparently this also gets to be my sick gift to myself #apparently that is also how i roll #brought to you by hymn and joanna being meddlesome

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p-artsypants · 6 years

Text

The North Tower- New Enemies

FF.net | AO3

After staring at books for the last three days, Astrid decided she needed a break. She took the time to do things that are a necessity for a millennial who works from home to do that a ghost from the 1st century wouldn’t know how to do.

Set up technology. The cable went up fairly simple, considering that Finn had cable at one point. But she would have to have a man from the cable company set up the internet. The castle gravely needed wifi, an essential in this era. Especially if Astrid wanted those 5 star reviews. And she wanted them badly. More good reviews, more guests, more money. It was a healthy cycle.

She turned on the flat screen TV in the main room to a game of rugby. She didn’t particularly like the sport, but it was the closest thing to American Football there was here. She supposed she’d get used to it.

When she turned around, couch was occupied by several ghosts, all entranced by the screen.

She was almost startled.

Gobber looked at her with a gleam in his eye. “Finn had a television, but not one as glorious as this.”

“I wouldn’t think so. This is state of the art.” She patted the side of the screen. It stood on top of a wooden bureau, as wires peaked out the sides. Hopefully when the cable guy came, maybe he’d make it look nicer.

The front doorknob jiggled. The ghosts in the room turned invisible.

A tall man, with broad shoulders and an even broader chin stepped in, and suddenly made eye contact with Astrid. “You must be Finn’s niece.” He said with a smile.

“I am,” she replied. “And you are?”

A specter rushed passed her and threw a pair of ghostly arms around him. “Eret! My love!” Cried Ruffnut.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” He said, somewhat resigned. He looked back at Astrid, “Eret, the groundskeeper.”

Astrid grinned, “I guess you’re acquainted with the…permanent guests of the house.”

Ruffnut climbed over Eret and clung to his muscly back like a koala bear.

“Uh, yeah. I grew up here, with my dad and my grandfather. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I met the ghosts. The day of my 18th birthday, my dad sat me down and said, ‘Son, now that you’re a man, you have to know the great secret of the castle.’ And before he could say anything else, Ruffnut leapt on me from out of nowhere, and has haunted me ever since. This vacation was my chance to get away.”

“Why did you leave me for so long!?” Ruffnut moaned, “It wasn’t the same without you!!”

Eret shrugged. “I have to get out and about sometimes.”

“What about me?!?!” She howled.

Astrid watched the exchange with a smile, glad to see that the ghosts had a little bit of human company. Hiccup appeared next to her. “The children that are raised here really have the raw end of the deal.” He spoke quietly.

“Why’s that?” Astrid watched as Eret fanned his arm through Ruff, like he was wafting a bad order away.

“The castle itself has an evil that persists even if the door is locked.”

“You mean nightmares?” She wondered allowed.

“So you’ve had them too?” He sighed. “I had hoped…that being in the same room as you, that knowing I was there, if that would make them go away. But I guess not.”

Eret finally walked outside, as Ruff stood with her arms reaching out for him. He was just getting another suitcase.

“There’s always something about the unknown in them. Like, last nights, I was on a slide, and I could hear a buzzsaw in the distance, but I couldn’t find where it was coming from.”

“Finn used to have them. As well as every Hofferson before him. It appears there’s no rest for the wicked.”

“Good thing I have NyQuil.” Astrid laughed emptily. “What’s some bad nightmares, anyway?”

“There’s more than just nightmares though, there’s also—“

“Hey Astrid!” Eret called, “did you need to get any groceries? The Tesco’s like 20 minutes from here, if you wanted to come with.”

“Hold that thought, Hiccup.” She smiled, “yeah! I do. My parents are coming tomorrow. They’re going to help me prepare for guests. Although, they were going to help clean, but as you can see, I got plenty of help in that regard.”

Eret nodded. “How do you think Finn did it without any hired help?”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. Really, besides Eret who did work outside, she couldn’t remember anyone working in the castle during the several times she visited as a child. “I guess I never really thought about it.”

“Well, now you know.”

Astrid glanced over to the ghosts all piled up on the couch. “Alright Hiccup, you’re in charge until we get back. Is there anything you want from the store? I know you can’t eat or drink anything…”

Hiccup’s eyes widened slightly, before he smiled. “No, thank you, Astrid. I’m fine.”

Eret rested his suitcases by the East Tower entrance. “Now Ruff, don’t go snooping through my stuff while I’m gone.” He reprimanded, like she was a dog.

“Oh, of course not.” She assured. “Why would I do that?” Her glance darted over to the suitcase and back to him with a smile.

Eret shook his head then looked at Astrid, “Ready?”

She prepared the affirmative, but then stopped with realization. “The internet guy!” She almost shouted.

“What about him?”

“He’s coming in like an hour, I have to be here for him…can you wait to go? Oh, what time does the store close?” Looking at her phone, she found it was 3 o’clock.

“It closes at 6.” Provided Eret.

“Crap…”

Hiccup came up beside her. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll take care of him. Go get the groceries.”

“What do you mean, you’ll take care of him…?”

“I’ll make sure he gets let in and finds everything he needs.”

Astrid looked at him skeptically. “Fine, but don’t do anything that would put my business in jeopardy before it even opens.”

“Oh of course, Milady.”

—

The ride into town was pleasant and quiet. Navigating the winding roads of the town was still new to Astrid, and she allowed her new friend to drive.

“So, how do you like the castle?” He asked, as they headed into town.

“It’s nice,” she said amicably, “big. Very fancy. Mysterious.”

“Yep, I’ve lived there my whole life, and there’s just so much I don’t understand myself.”

“Have you ever been to the North Tower?” It was a stupid question.

“I met Toothless once in my life, if that’s what you meant. He was waiting for me as soon as I opened the door.”

“And you didn’t run screaming?”

“I never said that,” he laughed. “That was…terrifying. To be sure. What about you? I’m assuming you did, since the gang was out and about. Last I knew, Finn had locked them all away.”

“The first night I was here, I saw a light on in the tower, and wondered if it was an intruder. Turns out it was just a bunch of really really old men playing Rummy.”

Eret snorted. “Must have been scary.”

“I…don’t know. I don’t remember that night all that well. It was only a few days ago, but some of details were fuzzy.”

“Probably from shock.”

“Probably.” She agreed. “I didn’t really accept that the castle was haunted until the next day…I still don’t know. Like, Hiccup and Gobber and the others…they act so normal. They just look…transparent. In every ghost movie I’ve seen, the ghosts are invisible and they’re stacking chairs and stuff. Not…helping you clean to make room for guests.”

“What did you think of Stoick?”

“Never met him. Hiccup said he left a few days ago.”

Eret was quiet before uttering a gentle, “oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How many are left? Do you know?”

“Um…I think I met most of them. So, Hiccup and Gobber, Fishlegs, Ruff and Tuff and Snotlout. That’s six.” She counted on her hand. “Gothi, Agnar, uh…Gust, Cleftjaw, Gunnar, Silent Sven…that’s 12.”

“Spitelout?”

“Nope, he’s gone.”

“Uh…Jorgen? Lars?”

“That’s 14.”

“Oh, Bucket and Mulch!”

“Both gone.”

Eret gave her sad sideways glance. “Really?”

“Hmm…” She hummed. “And Magnus. I think that’s it.”

“Only 15 left?”

“Well, there was 19 when I moved in.” She winced, “to be fair, I’m mixing a lot of them up in my head.”

“It’s okay. You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Astrid shifted in his truck uncomfortably. He was still a stranger, and a man at that. This situation should rightfully make her squirm, just a little.

“What’s it like?” He finally asked.

“What?”

“The North Tower. Finn…never talked to me about it. No matter how much I asked. He just said I was a child and what was in there was not for children. You don’t need to tell me every detail…I’m just curious.”

“I’m sure you would be…” She assessed. “Well, it’s kind of like…if you took the West or East Towers, and stripped them bare and let them stagnate for a thousand years.”

Eret huffed. “That’s a vivid picture.”

“But the bottom level goes really…really far down.”

He looked sideways at her. “What’s down there?”

“No idea. I went down a few floors with Hiccup, when Bucket left…but that’s as far as I got. Honestly, I never want to go anywhere near there again.”

“Why? Was it just sad?”

“Sad and…I don’t know. I felt like I was being watched.” She carefully left out the part about the figure with the long bony fingers.

Eret made a sound like ‘yech’ deep in his throat. “Well, that solves my curiosity.”

“Really? Just a few words from me, and that’s it?”

“I mean, I still wonder what’s deep deep down…but if the water level from the lake is anything to go by, it’s probably like the Berkley Pit down there.”

“The what?”

“You know, The Berkley Pit? The armpit of America?”

“The armpit of America is New Jersey.” She corrected.

“I guess you would know,” he chuckled. “You’re from the US, right? Or is that not an American accent?”

“I’m from Michigan, by Chicago. What’s this pit?”

“Oh, it’s a pit. In Butte Montana. It used to be an old copper mine, but it flooded and now the water is black and so toxic that anything that touches it instantly dies.”

“Ew gross. I think that’s more like the butthole of America.”

“Butthole in Butte.” He chuckled.

“How do you know about that? Since, well I wouldn’t take you for an American tourist.”

He grinned at her. “I’m a landscaper. I study the pH balance of soil for fun.”

“Weird.”

“And you rent out your Uncle’s haunted castle for fun. We all have our kicks.”

“I don’t do it for fun!” Astrid argued back. “It’s my lively hood!” She crossed her arms. “I study the history of the ghosts for fun.”

“I rest my case.”

—

Back at the castle, a rotund man in a large white van pulled up the drive. He looked at the castle in excitement. Rumors were that the building was haunted, and he had never serviced a haunted house before. He knocked on the door, “Spectrum Internet!” he called.

It was a moment before the big door unlatched and creaked open. No one was there.

“Hello…?” He called out. “My name’s Ioan, I’m here to set up your box?” He took a few steps inside. “Astrid Hofferson? You called this morning?”

The door suddenly slammed shut and locked behind him.

He gulped heavily, definitely considering the possibility of these so called ghosts.

A clanking sound made it’s way to him from under the stairs in front of him. It got louder and louder until a suit of armor was marching towards him.

Poor Ioan dropped his toolbox in fear, and stood frozen in place, his knees knocking together.

“You’re the internet guy?” The armor spoke, his voice echoing with a hallow ring.

“Uh yes, sir.” Ioan nodded.

“Great!” The armor clapped with a clink. “What do you need from me?”

“Uh…there should be a place where the cable connects to the outside, it’s called a drop spot. Do you know where it is?”

“It’s probably in the library, come with me.”

So poor, terrified, confused Ioan followed the suit of armor into the East Tower and down the stairs. In the south corner, there was a cable line hooked up to a splitter.

“Uh, thanks…” said Ioan, as he got to work. “Where do you want the modem? In here?”

“The closer we can get to the South Tower would be the most beneficial, I think.”

Ioan scratched his head. “Well, I could do that, but these walls are solid stone. You’d have to get a contractor in here to drill a hole to run the line.”

“If I got someone to drill the hole right now, could you run it?”

Ioan looked at him like he was crazy. “I…guess.”

“Okay, give me just a second. You do what you can right now.”

And the suit of armor left the room, clanking all the way.

“I need a vacation…” Ioan whispered to himself.

—

The shopping trip had proved to be a good bonding experience for Astrid and Eret, and she was now relaxed at the prospect of sharing a tower with him.

Astrid quietly shamed herself. Here, she was nervous around a young professional male, while she had willingly fallen asleep twice in front of a male ghost. She should have been more comfortable around Eret, since he had skin.

But there was just something about Hiccup that set her mind at ease. His voice, maybe the way he spoke? Maybe the wisdom of a thousand years? Or maybe it simply was shock.

Either way, she now had two guys she could depend on in this strange new life. Not that she really needed them, but it was a nice idea.

When she and Eret returned, a police car, as well as an internet van, were sitting in the driveway.

“Oh no…” Astrid muttered to herself.

“Did you lock the door?” Eret whispered.

“I think so…I’m pretty sure…” Astrid jumped out of the truck quickly and hurried up to the door. Pulling on the handle, she found that it was still locked.

“Good afternoon.” A deep voice spoke from around the corner. A familiar face came around.

“You’re…the officer from the other night.”

“Viggo Ryker,” the man held out his hand. “Sorry for startling you.”

“Is everything alright?” She asked, nervously.

Eret, not bothered, had began bringing bags of groceries over and setting them by the door.

“Yes, I think so,” responded the policeman. “I was just coming to check on things. I wanted to make sure that home invader situation was handled.”

All her life, Astrid had trusted the police. Her uncle was a policeman back home, as well. But this man…he was not to be trusted. There was something about him…that just didn’t sit right in her gut.

“Oh yeah. My Uncle had a generator to that part of the castle. It’s a storage unit. There was a motion detector light up there. There must have been a mouse or something. It turned off not long after you left.”

The Officer Ryker didn’t look convinced. But he chose not to say anything. “Well, that’s good to know.” He took a notebook out of his pocket and started jotting down some information. “If there’s ever any sort of problem that requires someone to be escorted off the premises, please don’t hesitate to call this non-emergency number.” He handed her the piece of paper. “But of course, 999 is still appropriate for life threatening situations.”

“I—uh, thank you.” She responded.

Eret had finished bring the collection of food over, and waited to unlock the door.

“Have a nice day, Miss Hofferson.” He nodded with a tip of his cap. Then he wandered back to his squad car.

“Hmm…” she pulled out her phone as Eret watched him leave. “This number he gave me…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not the emergency number that Mala gave me.”

Eret was quiet a moment. “Does it matter?”

Astrid considered, “It probably doesn’t. But, he rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Ditto, that’s why I didn’t unlock the door.”

“You are one smart cookie.”

Eret unlocked the door and stared ahead at the strangest sight he’d ever seen.

One normal portly man was poised on a latter, and screwed fasteners into the wooden molding around the ceiling. He was surrounded by three suits of armor, all helping him in various positions, either holding up the cable or the ladder.

“Oh, Astrid, Eret, you’re home!” Hiccup spoke from one of the suits. “Internet is almost up. We’re going to put a modem on the table right beneath the stairs.”

Eret covered his mouth with a fist, trying in vain to hold in his laughter. Astrid smiled, and shook her head. “I should have never doubted you when you said you had this covered.”

“Are you Miss Hofferson?” Ioan asked, coming down the ladder.

“Yep,” she smiled. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Oh it was no trouble at all! You’re staff here is so helpful! I wish I had help like this at all my jobs!”

“Well, we’re vacant right now, so they have nothing better to do.” Astrid laughed.

Ioan came a little closer. “You can be honest, are there actual people in the suits?”

Astrid laughed. “If you want to think so, go ahead.”

“Are you going to fasten this line or not? I’m not going to stand here all day!” Called Gobber, from another ladder.

—

At night, Astrid curled up in bed with her laptop, and made sure the Castle had a Facebook page. Tomorrow, she’d take pictures and make sure everything was ready to start taking reservations.

Hiccup floated in, and sat cross-legged by her feet. “Was that okay?”

“Hmmm?” She looked up at him.

“What we did with the armor? I know you don’t want us to be known to everyone…”

“I think it was fine. What do you think? Do you want people to know you?”

He was quiet for a while. “Hiding for a thousand years can make you want a lot of things.”

Astrid closed her computer and set it aside. “How old were you when you were cursed?”

“20.” He answered simply. “How old are you?”

��21. I was only asking because you look about my age. Well, when you’re in the North Tower, you do.”

He hummed slightly. “I’m glad I look human at least a little.”

“Yeah, now that I think about it, but is it that you have a body there, but not out in the castle?”

“I don’t,” he said simply. “The form I take in the tower is tangible, but it’s still not whole. If you wanted to, you could walk through me even in there.”

“Oh…I just assumed…”

“It’s alright. Looks can be deceiving.” He shrugged.

“Are you always this chummy with the Hofferson’s, or am I special?”

He leaned back on his arms, considering. “At first, when this whole thing happened, I was pretty upset. I spent that first lifetime by myself…really, I was the first one to leave.”

Her eyes widened.

“My whole outlook on life was my freedom. Growing up, I was the smallest in the tribe and I would do anything to belong. After I lost my leg, I came to realize that I would always be different, and there was nothing I could do about it. So I embraced it. Then I came to realize that I had a chiefly duty to my people, so I tried to balance my solitary life and helping the tribe.”

“It must have been suffocating.” She sighed.

“It still is. There’s days where I wander through the North Tower just to get away. But it’s never enough.” He met her eyes and then blushed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just unload that on you.”

“It’s alright,” she assured. “But the question still stands, do you treat all the Castle Masters like this?”

He smirked. “Not usually this close. I just think you’re cute.”

Astrid burned red. “I—I that is, I’m flattered…”

He chuckled. “Sorry, we are kind of blunt. Viking trait.”

She shook her head. “I’m just not used to be called cute.”

He leaned forward, toward her. “What? Do you not have a boyfriend?”

“Nah, I had a few dates in college, but no one I really connected with.”

“Oh.” He bored his big green eyes into hers. “Do you connect with me?”

She smirked back. “Sure. But don’t get too used to the idea. We walk very different paths of lives.”

“You mean I’m dead and you aren’t?” The way he said it held much contempt, and lacked his usual teasing tone.

“Yeah, that.” She simpered. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.” He assured. “It’s just something I’ve had to come to terms with.” Then he smiled, genuinely. “I do like you though. I’d like to get to know you more. Maybe you are the one that’ll break the curse.”

Astrid reached out, and overlapped his hand with hers. “I certainly hope so.”

#the north tower #fanfiction #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup #Astrid Hofferson #ghost au #ghosts #modern

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thunderflight · 7 years

Text

You don't want to see ghosts [Part 1]

I’m sure you’ve wondered what a ghost looks like.

With the advent and continual progress of technology, proving the supernatural has become a rather difficult task. Faked evidence pervades the stores of information we’ve gathered of supposed paranormal phenomenon. Blurs of light in photographs, flickering lights in haunted houses, and scratches on those who ventured into the territory of the dead...I always found them all to be quite lacking. It pales in comparison to what they actually look like. What they can actually do. And I would know.

Because I can see ghosts.

Do you know what it’s like to see the dead before you even have a concept of what death is?

The photographs of me in my earliest days often show me staring off into the distance, eyes focused on something just beyond my parent’s shoulders.

When I was a child, I was told I had an overactive imagination. My family was not religious, nor did they believe in the supernatural. They had no reason to believe something was wrong. There was great concern over the drawings I would create, but they attributed it to mental issues. Dark figures floating in between the figures of me and my parents. Black and red crayons used in abundance.

I was taken to therapy. I was told that it must be an extension of my grief, my despair over my parent’s divorce. In reality, that was the least of my problems. I believed early on that either I would go crazy, or else I would have to ignore it. I tried for the latter, but I learned that it’s hard to ignore them.

Because, you see, if you can see ghosts, the ghosts can see you too.

Ghosts can’t always see living people, just as living people can’t always see ghosts. I think it’s related to how aware they are of their own death. But they can always, always see me.

Imagine me as a beacon for some of them. The one scent of life, a flame in the darkness, unable to hide.

Their appearance varies depending on their own perception, just as their ability to see the living does. They sometimes seem like they’re floating, suspended in some invisible liquid. Sometimes they walk on their feet. Their hair flows around their heads. The easiest ones to handle are the ones that don’t quite yet understand that they are dead.

They’re looking for closure, I think. They’re usually people who were murdered or died suddenly, their short life snuffed out by some cruel force, or else there's something here that still ties them down to the earth. They still look human, at the very least. Usually, they sport the wound that killed them. I grew unphased by the sight of blood and viscera. I’d seen more bleeding orifices, severed limbs, decapitated heads, and spilled intestines by the time I was five than any soldier probably would in their entire lifetime. Or so I guessed. So I grew pretty desensitized to it.

They’re sad, almost, these hazy specters. I feel pity for them in their decrepit state. They gaze at me with sunken eyes, groaning and moaning, reaching out to me with transparent hands like cold hands seeking warm fire. I used to be terrified of them, but I learned that they can’t really touch me. It feels colder when they brush my skin, but that’s about it. I wear a lot of jackets.

However, the most terrifying ones are those that understand they are dead.

Their flesh rots visibly. Their eyes flash with dark bitterness, a rage so unsettling that it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up straight. They snarl and drool. They walk unnaturally, sometimes on all fours. Often times, it seems as if they’ve twisted into something more than human, something dark and ungodly. I hate it when they see me. Sometimes they try to swipe at me, screaming with pure rage. Most of them are too weak to affect me, but it sends a cold chill down my spine, making me shiver. I had to learn to ignore those screeches too, that inhuman rage. Luckily they aren’t as frequent, but sometimes they make my day a living hell. They tend to follow me a bit before giving up, unless they’re grounded to some haunted place, in which case all I have to do is leave.

All ghosts can change their appearance depending on their moods. That’s why the scariest ones are those who are angry. The ones that don’t know they’re dead are mostly just sad. The vengeful ones are terrifying for sure. I spoke to them at first, as a child, before I knew better, but I learned to keep quiet. It’s not like they make that much sense most of the time anyway.

So I lived my days of youth walking past these dark, mournful figures, trying not to meet their hollow gazes. Most of them stop and watch me, all eyes trained on me. It's unnerving, but you learn to steel yourself to it. I thought that the angry spirits were the worst of it all. I was terribly wrong.

Because even if I grew used to them, there was one thing I never anticipated having to face.

Demons.

That’s what I think they are, anyway. I can’t be sure. Maybe they’re angry spirits that have stubbornly persisted so long in between life and afterlife that they really did twist into something inhuman. Maybe they’ve been there all along, since before the time of man, from some ancient religion. Cursed and unholy. I just can’t be sure. One thing is for sure: they’re absolutely fucking terrifying.

Their limbs are too long. Their fingers are hooked. Their mouths are impossibly wide. Their eyes pierce into my very soul. You should never, EVER meet their gaze.

When they notice that I can see them, well...

There's a reason that I duck my head down, pretending they’re not there when I happen to notice one. Sometimes, if I pretend I can’t see them, if I avoid staring, they ignore me. They’re different from ghosts - they can see humans at all times. Being able to see me has no significance for them. It’s when they notice that I can see them that things can get really fucked.

I was about nine years old when I saw one for the first time. I was never the same again.

I was passing an apartment on the train. I gazed out the window absent-mindedly, trying to ignore the man in the pinstripe suit holding his head in his lap who was staring at me in the seat next to ours. We passed an apartment complex and slowed as the train shifted tracks. I saw it through the window of the fifth floor, clinging to the ceiling. It felt like time slowed. It had too many limbs...too many fingers. Even though time felt slow, it snapped its head up with impossible speed as soon as my eyes rested on it. We locked eyes. It had terrifying glowing orbs. As I stared at it, it grinned a terribly wide smile.

It sent a shock through my little frame, and I squeezed my mother’s hand tightly, squeezing my eyes shut. My heart was leaping out of my chest as I started wheezing, sweat rolling down my temple. My mother picked me up and placed me in her lap, gently comforting me and asking me what was wrong, but I said nothing, petrified. I did feel a little relieved because I thought it was over. I was horribly wrong.

I didn’t know that it started to follow me. Whatever it was doing in that apartment, it was far more interested in my ability to see it than anything it was hunting.

The ghosts sitting on the train were complacent for most of the ride as they usually were, sometimes staring at me, sometimes staring off into some far, distant place. Then, in unison, they snapped their heads towards the back of the train. I froze, my eyes darting around. A strange chill settled even over the undead. Suddenly, like a flood, they all stood and fled the train, leaping into the rushing scenery beyond the train doors. They vanished like clouds of smoke, effortlessly, wordlessly.

As I felt my heart fill with dread, I slowly turned my head towards the back of the train car.

It was sitting in the back corner, its head tilted at an impossible angle, grinning at me with teeth sharper than daggers. Too many teeth. Too many limbs. Too many fingers.

I started crying.

It didn’t approach at first.

My mother was baffled, trying to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. I heard it clicking its claws and speaking in a guttural language behind us.

We exited the train. It followed, slipping between the crowds of people, hunched over with glittering eyes.

I practically flew up my apartment steps, my mother shouting after me. I panted by the door, gripping her dress as she unlocked it. I didn’t leave her side, my eyes wild with fear. She was concerned for me, but there was nothing she could do. I glanced out of the hallway window and saw it crawling across the street towards the apartment.

I begged her to stay with me that night with all of my might, but she insisted that I had to grow out of these childish fears. I think she was just fed up with it all. I don’t want to blame her, but that night, above all, I needed her company.

She wouldn’t have it. She left me alone, closing my door softly. I heard a click as she locked it, already anticipating that I would try to run into her room. Perhaps, to her, this was a good way to get me to face my fears, but she couldn’t have picked worse timing.

I clung to my covers, breathing heavily. My eyes darted around the room.

All was quiet at first. My exhaustion got the better of me.

As I started slipping into a disturbed sleep, I heard my closet creak open. My eyes rolled as I tried to fight unconsciousness, but it was to no avail. I must’ve lost the battle because I started having the worst nightmare of my life. Horrifyingly grotesque creatures tugged at my limbs with their maws, sinking their teeth into my flesh. They ate me alive, screaming, over and over and over again, ripping and tearing at my flesh, gobbling my intestines. It was excruciating and terrifying. They said horrible things as their tongues licked the flesh clean from my bones. Finally, I broke through the dream, drenched in sweat, my eyes flashing open.

What met me was far more terrifying than the nightmare.

The demon sat on my chest, its large frame suffocating me as it weighed down. I wanted to scream, to struggle, but I was completely frozen. Its long claws dug into my skin, pinning me down, drawing blood from my soft skin.

It was hard to see it in the dark of my room. It was a silhouette, tall and hunched over. The demon itself was impossibly dark, emanating shadows like a reverse sun. Its red eyes glowed in the darkness, filled with hatred and an unholy glee. Its touch burned my skin like a hot brand as it leered at me.

Slowly, it started leaning down and unhinging its jaw. Hot drool dripped from its jowls. My heart sunk in my chest as an icy chill came over me.

It had rows of sharp teeth unfolding out of its mouth like a flower. Its hot, disgusting breath wafted over me, choking me even more. Tears flowed town my cheeks as my eyes nearly bugged out of my head. I gritted and grinded my teeth, groaning, struggling against my inexplicable paralysis. My heartbeat drummed in my ears like a war cry, adrenaline shooting through my veins.

A thought flashed into my mind.

Is this really how I am going to end?

After a lifetime of struggling with my strange ability, misery and fear parading in my heart as I stumbled with confusion throughout life, I was going to die at the hands of a demon? How was that fair? I never had any explanation for what I saw, no way to fight back against this dark force. Was I just a victim of circumstance, given a power I couldn’t understand with no way to defend myself?

I felt rage building in my chest. An impossible defiance exploded out of me. I don’t want to die! I will not die! I REFUSE TO DIE HERE!

The demon flinched as if it heard my thoughts. I gurgled at first, but gathered my strength and cried out with all my might. It narrowed its eyes and shrieked back at me, its voice piercing my ears and digging into my very soul. It lunged as if to rip my throat out, but I did not submit. I yelled back with equal force, unrelenting, my voice rising above its voice. It flinched again, slowly slinking back, retreating into a corner of my room. I sat up, shouting louder. It was a furious, primal, guttural yell, my eyes bugging out of my head as saliva flew from my lips. Desperation flowed through my blood. I bared my teeth, standing on my bed, and screamed at it with balled fists. “I WILL NOT SUCCUMB TO YOU! I REFUSE! I REFUSE!! GAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!”

I shouted, raved, and cursed at it as it shrank, melting into the shadows until only the glaring red orbs pierced through the darkness. Its hatred hit me like a wave, but I did not falter, jumping down from the bed and screaming at it, my small frame trembling with purpose. I slowly approached the corner it was sinking into until those hateful eyes were almost gone.

Before it vanished, it hissed, “This is only the beginning. You will be cursed your whole life with this dark vision, tormented until death. There is no escape for you. Fear, and suffer, you wretched little bitch.”

It cackled as its eyes blinked away into nothingness. I panted heavily, descending into sobs. I fell to my knees, clutching myself. My mother burst into my room, shouting at me in confusion and annoyance. I looked up at her with eyes far too burdened for a child. She stopped, staring, unsure of herself. My fingernails dug into my arm as I gritted my teeth.

There were handprints burned into my wrists and ankles, claw marks ripped into my skin. I think perhaps that was enough to spook even my mother, stubborn skeptic though she was. She purchased crosses and holy water, littering my room with them. I don’t think she fully committed to it, but for my sake, she started taking us to church.

I doubt it mattered.

I learned that day that these demons feed on our vulnerability. Our will is stronger than we think, however. It is perhaps a demon’s greatest enemy, for once we believe we can defeat it, we truly can. At least, in my experience.

This should have given me confidence, bolstered me in a just cause to fight them. Instead, I turned into myself, cowardice prevailing. I did not want to be cursed all my life, as the demon had claimed I would be.

That night scarred me beyond reason. How could any nine-year-old really fully accept it? Maybe it was childish of me, but I wished desperately that I couldn’t see them, these ghosts and specters that haunted my waking moments. It was unspoken, but I understood that I was sensitive to them, more capable of interacting with them, more susceptible to the darker forces. That must be what the demon meant. Denial was my only comfort, for the fear was too great. I stopped mentioning them to my family, I pretended they weren’t there, and I averted my gaze on those rare moments when I saw another tall, dark, impossibly evil creature.

And, for the most part, I was undisturbed.

My mother rejoiced. The hardest days seemed over.

They were just echoes of lives long gone. Their fingers brushed my skin, but they could not force me to do anything. They were inconsequential and irrelevant to my day to day life. It became easier to ignore them with time. I gained friends and began enjoying life for what I could make of it. I refused any responsibility for them. I was just a victim of circumstance. I could not help them, and I could not stop them. They just simply were.

They even faded a little as I continued to refuse to see them. I was convinced that if I kept up denying, one day I might be rid of them completely. I was diligent in my cause. I never wanted to see another ghost or demon ever again. I did not want that demonic prophecy of a life full of torment to be my reality. I believed that if I willed it away, it could not come to be. For a while, that was enough.

I retreated into novels, using imagination and a world without ghosts to soothe my own fears. I became interested in writing, and I had a natural proclivity for creativity. It was easy to get lost in. To forget. I clung to it like a lifeline. The days gradually blurred, the past becoming a distant nightmare. I was content, so secure in the lie I told myself.

I think I could’ve lived most of my life like in denial if that day hadn't come.

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#scary stories #creepypasta #ghosts #fiction #short stories #can I tag creepypasta? idk if this even counts hah #mine #thunderflight #you don't want to see ghosts

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