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galaxywhump · 3 months

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Home Again

Trope: Not Used to Freedom

Fandom: Original Work

[SV-240 masterlist]

[blue for completed]

Timeline: post-captivity, set after Ghosts of the Past.

contents: recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, hospital setting, childhood trauma, mention of therapy.

~~~

“Jonna Schulte visited me yesterday.”

Nathaniel is looking out the window, so Wren can’t see his expression, but he does notice the tension in his shoulders.

“I know.” Nathaniel’s voice is forced, stiff. “I talked to her.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking.” The emphasis Wren puts on the last word goes unnoticed. “So, what’s the deal with… all that? She didn’t tell me much.”

“We were married, it didn’t work out, so she left.”

Nathaniel spits out his words like they’re poison, as is the topic at large, but Wren doesn’t want to back out. It’s too important, and too confusing.

“She said she didn’t want to abandon me.”

Nathaniel inhales sharply and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what she did or didn’t want. You can ask her.” He finally faces Wren, his gaze like the dark sky before a thunderstorm. “‘I don’t want to talk about this.”

His tone is harsh, and it makes Wren freeze. There it is, the tension he’s felt for so long, his instincts urging him to run, and he feels so small and insignificant, but not in the same way that SV-240 made him feel. He doesn’t feel like a human being confronted with the unimaginable loneliness of being trapped on a distant planet. He feels like a helpless kid.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away, his heartbeat deafening, his hands shaking.

Nathaniel seems surprised by Wren’s reaction, but he doesn’t add anything. The sense of immediate danger slowly fades, though the implications linger in Wren’s mind.

Nothing has changed. The events of the last two years did not overwrite his earlier memories and instincts, not that he really expected otherwise. What Daniel had put him through made him discover mechanisms within his psyche that he wasn’t aware of before, and which he figures must have come from his childhood. Now he gets to see their root cause with new eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it.

Between living alone, struggling with the way his body and mind work now, and going back to living with his father, he’s not sure if there exists an option that isn’t terrible.

“Do you need help packing?”

He nearly jumps in place and shakes his head.

“No, no, I’ll do it myself. It’s not a lot.”

His hands are shaking as he puts what little he’d taken out back in the bag and zips it up.

As much as he wanted to leave the hospital before, now he wishes he could stay.

***

When they exit, there are people waiting for them, a small crowd gathered near the entrance, the sight of which causes Wren to stop abruptly, his eyes going wide. And then there’s noise, voices, and they don’t sound angry, but they’re too overwhelming for Wren to register anything. He stepped out of the hospital and fell into a void, and he’s frozen in place, gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles turn white.

Someone grabs his arm and pulls, and his immediate reaction is to try and free himself, but when he manages to tear his gaze away from the crowd, he sees it’s just his father, so he forces himself to move, to put one foot in front of the other, to get the hell out, away from those people, everything is too much, too crowded, and it isn’t until he’s seated in the car that he can breathe again.

He exhales and leans forward until he rests his forehead against the back of the front seat, but he has to straighten up when the car starts. He blinks and his gaze flits towards the window, but he has to look away when he sees the crowd again.

“What happened?”

Wren winces. He can feel Nathaniel’s eyes boring into him, but he doesn’t want to look. It’s not like he knows what happened, anyway; for all he knows, he left the hospital building and regained consciousness in the car.

“Sorry,” he says, and Nathaniel doesn’t push, he never does anymore, he only wants uncomfortable conversations to end, and that’s exactly what happens. The drive home passes in silence, and Wren spends its entirety swallowing back tears.

***

Unlike him, the house hasn’t changed at all. It’s still neat, but unremarkable, average in just about every way; Nathaniel never flaunted his position by going for unnecessary luxury. Still gripping the strap of the bag tightly, Wren enters, and the inside is the same too, because it has always been comfortable, and that was enough. There are some new things, things he doesn’t recognize, but they’re minor, they don’t matter.

The door closes behind him, and something about the sound both sobers him up and sends him back to a day he’d rather not reminisce about. He can’t breathe, he can feel tears coming again, and this time he can’t hold them back, so he rushes upstairs, to his old room, which is also the same, the only difference being the boxes strewn about the floor. His things, brought back to the place he had escaped years ago.

He’s home.

Tears overflow and he furiously wipes them away. All he wants to do is sit on his bed and wallow in emotions that he can’t even identify, but he hears his father’s footsteps on the stairs, and he knows he has to appear at least a bit more put-together. He sits down on the bed anyway, unzips his bag, and starts unpacking it.

“Hey,” Nathaniel says after a symbolic knock on the doorframe. “Need any help?”

At first Wren wants to refuse again. These are his things, he can handle unpacking, and having his father here will probably only lead to more tension, more awkwardness, but…

He looks at the boxes. The bag he can handle, but with how he’s feeling he’s not sure the same can be said about the boxes. Besides, if he’s left on his own, he might just burst into tears and accomplish nothing, and his room being a mess will only drag him further into misery.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, looking up from the bag with a slightly forced smile. “I don’t know what I’m going to put where yet, but if you could help with the boxes, that would be great. Just… clothes on one pile, other stuff on a different pile, something like that.”

“Sounds doable,” Nathaniel laughs, and Wren does too, and they get to work, mostly in silence, sometimes making small talk or commenting on their finds.

“You still have this T-shirt?”

“Yeah, it’s living its best life as pajamas now.”

“Mhm. And this one?”

“Pajamas. Or, uh, for cleaning days.”

“This one too?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a hole in it.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.”

They laugh, Wren through tears, because of course he’s crying, because he hasn’t seen these things in such a long time, he thought he’d never see them again. There are tears in his breaking voice too, which go unaddressed; it feels absurd, this elephant in the room, his silent breakdown and its cause, but he convinces himself that it’s better this way, that they can both pretend that everything is fine, even when nothing is.

Their conversations are normal, ignoring the context that is anything but. Catching up, how much has the city changed? It must have changed, it’s been… a while. Food. Food is a normal subject. They can get takeout, whatever Wren wants. Not from that one place, though. It closed down a year or so ago.

It’s strange to think that normal things were happening while he was away. A silly thought, of course he’d never think that everything was put on hold when he was kidnapped, but somehow it still hits him hard. The restaurant closed down, and he was busy being a captive. He doesn’t even know what was going on with his father when he was presumed dead, but he doesn’t want to start that conversation yet; he can ask about it later. Right now he focuses on dividing his clothes into categories with some semblance of sense before putting them in the closet.

The last thing he reaches for is his running T-shirt, and he pauses, holding it up, rubbing the slippery fabric between his fingers.

“I think I’m gonna go for a run,” he says, his idea verbalized as soon as it appears in his mind. Nathaniel, busy collecting the now empty boxes, looks at him with a frown.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Naturally, Wren starts doubting himself, and maybe it is a stupid idea, but it’s an exciting one, and he doesn’t want to just give it up.

“Yeah, I… think I need it. I miss running.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel says, still seemingly unconvinced. “Now?”

“No.” Wren shakes his head. “I’ll wait until the evening. So it’s less warm.” And, hopefully, so there’s fewer people. He doesn’t say that part out loud. Being concerned about the weather is normal. Freaking out after being one of the only two people on an entire planet is not. He wants to be normal, and if he can’t, he’ll at least pretend.

The food they get from a place Wren knows well tastes different from what he remembers, but maybe he just doesn’t remember it well, it’s been so long, after all. They talk for a bit about nothing in particular, and when the silence threatens to turn awkward, Wren suggests watching something light, maybe a game show, and they do just that, joking and trying to guess the answers before the contestants do. It’s a familiar scenario in a way that fills Wren with unease as time goes on; he’s relieved when evening comes and he can excuse himself to get ready.

Putting up his hair to keep it out of the way and warming up before leaving the house is a routine he hasn’t forgotten, but it’s not as nostalgic and uplifting as it should be, because he used to do this on SV-240 too. Back then it made him feel better, but the price he pays now is that it’s become tainted, linked to memories of running laps around Daniel’s house, of working out alongside him. That, however, is reduced to a triviality when Wren leaves the house and faces the world outside.

Running laps within the safe area around the house, guarded from the dangers of the planet, was one thing; being faced with the startling realization that he can go wherever he wants is something else entirely. He’s no longer confined, be it to the house, the spaceship, or the hospital. He’ll have to go back home eventually, but he’s the one who gets to decide when that will be.

He’s free.

He sways on his feet a little, and has to take a deep breath of Earthly air. For just a moment he considers turning back, going back inside, but above all he feels… excited. Energized. He wants to get the most out of his newfound freedom, so he braces himself, chooses a direction, and starts running, maybe a bit faster than he usually would, and a wave of euphoria the likes of which he hasn’t felt in a long time spreads throughout his body, through his every nerve. His shoes hit the pavement at a steady pace, and his breathing falls into a familiar rhythm. That’s all that matters.

When he comes back home, he’ll have no choice but to face his thoughts. His first therapy session is coming up - how should he approach it? How much can he tell his therapist? He’ll have to bring up something, think about the last two years with Daniel, recall some of the physical torture, because he can’t imagine himself talking about anything other than that, even though it’s the other memories that give him nightmares each and every night. Is he going to have one tonight, in his old room? He doesn’t want his father to hear it. His father… The time they spent together was nice, and Wren knows it’s nothing new, nor was it a one-off. There have always been days like this, filled with casual, lighthearted conversations, joking and laughter, and yet, when he was away, he could only remember the other days, raised voices, disappointment and contempt. He got a reminder of that earlier, Nathaniel’s reaction to his question about Jonna, Jonna, his mother, who didn’t want to abandon him, who’s one message or call away…

He never wants to stop running.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#bad things happen bingo #recovery whump #slavery whump #forced relationship whump #childhood trauma tw #whump #wren rackham #nathaniel rackham #sv-240 #my writing #pls let me know if there's a better way to tag stuff about wren's trauma #well i finally wrote something #i dusted this off recently #and woah i have a bthb card #so close to filling it out actually #anyway. this chapter's a bit different #but i suppose that the entire recovery arc is going to be a bit different #i hope you like it #and that the taglist works

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zeenimf · 4 days

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wakaranai boku no kokoro ni aru koto mo kakitudzuketara kimi ni todoku kamo

わからない僕の心にあることも書き続けたら君に届くかも

if I keep writing then perhaps even the things inside my heart that I don't understand will reach you some day

#my writing #poetry #poem #it really is tanka hour isn't it #that's what you get for finally reading that one chapter of that one manga I suppose #too many things going on inside my head and my heart #that I cannot express #so we keep trying #one poem at a time

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meownotgood · 10 months

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50,000 words. 50k words of aki sex. five zero zero zero zero. aki sex.

#don't mind the fact that I was supposed to reach this work count like two weeks ago uhhhhhhhh #I haven't had time to write more than like 200 words a day recently I'm sorry...#BUT HEY I DID IT OKAY #I'm about like... halfway done with the seggs #and then after that I have the ending portion to write #and there may be a small epilogue #after that I need to edit and proofread the whole second chapter #AND THEN. THEN AND ONLY THEN. WILL I FINALLY BE FREE #godddddd this fic has held me hostage for far too long #I think somewhere around 60k words will be the final word count #when I reach that milestone I'm actually done I swear #why is this my longest fic to date by a long shot too I don't even know #I wanna say expect the first chapter sometime next month but...#I know me and I know that me has a lot of work and I know that shooting for september is a healthier goal #WHAT DAFAQ BY THE WAY IT'S ALREADY JULY AND THEN IT'S GONNA BE AUGUST AND THEN IT'S GONNA BE SEPTEMBER. WHAT THE FUCK.#this is. crazy

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difeisheng · 9 months

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writing has truly felt like pulling teeth the last few days, but here, have a hard-earned snippet of something *falls down*

The shards of Shaoshi are still shattered on the road when he finds his way to Wangjiang Pavilion, sun slanting nearly at its peak. Xiao Zijin didn't even bother gathering them up or placing them to the side, the bastard; Di Feisheng would fly to Sigu Sect and duel the man in the courtyard himself for it if he thought it was worth his time.

(One day Di Feisheng will hunt him down. If not for Xiao Zijin's insecure stupidity, he might have laid eyes upon Li Xiangyi again. But he has priorities, and one fumbling idiot, clinging to the reputation of a sect that is only the shell of its former glory, is currently irrelevant.)

Dust has already settled on Shaoshi's hilt. Di Feisheng reaches for it, settles it in his grasp. Even unbalanced like this, with its blade in pieces, its former quality as a weapon is evident by touch. But the strike of Yangzhouman remains where he strokes the hammered clouds of the grip. There is no spirit to this sword now, broken by the inner energy it was aligned with for so long.

Li Xiangyi is dead, but his sword is not, Di Feisheng told him half a month ago, unthinking but for the wine in his hand and the rush of being alive, both himself and the man across from him. The last laugh Shaoshi has become is sharper than the remains it's broken into. Even mended, it will no longer be the same blade that first carved out the forms of Xiangyi Taijian.

Li Xiangyi is dead.

His words were the ones taken from Li Xiangyi's mouth, an acquiescence then, because how could Li Xiangyi be dead when here he was? Smiling, as tangible a thing as the touch of Yangzhouman singing through Di Feisheng's meridians. Beifeng Baichang had let him survive, retreat into himself, but Yangzhouman allowed him to live again.

With strength left in Li Xiangyi to snap his own sword, was it enough to save its founder one last time, too?

"Zunshang."

Wuyan lands without sound in the shadow of the pavilion, crouching into a bow. Di Feisheng motions for him to rise. At least there'll always be one man in this world to appear on time.

"Have everyone left search for Li Xiangyi. Send them downriver first. Check for any abandoned boats on the shore. I want to know everything, whether you succeed or not."

"Understood. What should we do if we find him?"

"If he's dead, bring him back. Or tell me where he's buried."

"And if he's alive?"

He's still owed the chance to face Li Xiangyi, left to know more of him in Di Feisheng's second life than just water-stained lines on paper. This, is something he should fight for.

And yet somewhere folded in Fang Duobing's belt is Li Xiangyi's letter, the only farewell he stopped to give. When the time comes, it comes.

What's the difference between a last goodbye, and a letting go?

Wuyan looks up. "Zunshang?"

Di Feisheng kneels on dusty ground and tears at the hem of his inner robe, something at hand to wrap Shaoshi in. There's still things yet of Li Xiangyi to pick up the pieces of. "Wuyan, have you ever thought I had an answer for everything?"

"I—"

"Because I'm realizing that I don't think I do." He folds the bundle into his own palm. "Go."

"So if Li Xiangyi is still in the Jianghu?"

Shaoshi's hilt weighs heavy in Di Feisheng's other hand, turned to dead metal.

"Ask me again when you find him."

#part of what is a first chapter. probably. maybe. i wish it wasn't #IM NOT SUPPOSED TO BE STARTING AN INTENDED MULTICHAP THIS DOESN'T END WELL GOOD GOD WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE #okay it's 2am im gonna go watch my brainless hk gangster drama now #finally got this section done it only took like 3 days #mysterious lotus casebook #di feisheng #wuyan #li xiangyi #ashton writes fic #li lianhua

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jamiesfootball · 7 months

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Please tell me more about gender flipped Jamie because that seems like So Many Thoughts that I would love to hear

I have so many thoughts and yet they are so ephemeral and unspecific and this has been languishing in my askbox and this isn't technically what you asked for but here's what I wrote instead:

Chelsea sent Roy into retirement the way you sent an aging dog to be euthanized. Slowly and gradually, an inescapable march towards a day you knew was coming. Roy's agent gently broke the news to him that they wouldn't be renewing his contract, but there was no gently breaking Roy.

The retirement itself was an underwhelming affair; he stayed numb throughout the presser, answered questions, and left the spotlight. No bang--not even a whimper.

That was months ago. Now Roy Kent, former Chelsea star, was daydrinking at a bar in Richmond at half-three in the afternoon, wondering if he could convince the matron of the house to change the fucking channel.

"Rough season our girls have had," the proprietor, Mae, explained in a tone befitting a bartender cleaning a pint. In reality, she'd joined Roy at the bar with her own glass of chardonnay. "Lot of shake ups. New owner, new gaffer. Still, it could be worse. This new coach of theirs might be from the States, but we're sitting higher up on the table than we have in years. Does your lot keep up with the Super League, then?"

It was one in a series of loaded questions. Roy couldn't imagine you could be a bartender in London without knowing who Roy Kent was. Sheer wasted optimism, he'd had, moving out of Chelsea and assuming anything short of leaving the country would get him away from the haunting specter of his own fucking jersey.

"Yeah," Roy answered reluctantly. "Yeah, some of us keep up. All the teams in the Premier have sister teams, don't we?" Except for Richmond. The one outlier--the only team in the league without a big brother to speak of.

"Mm. Then you heard about the scandal?"

Roy grunted. Of course he heard. Everyone knew about Rupert Mannion ages ago; it was about bloody time someone did something. Awful for his ex-wife that it'd fallen to her to do it.

Mae topped off his chardonnay before pouring the remainder of the bottle into her own glass. "This new gaffer though, he's one of the good ones. He hangs around here sometimes, and you can tell just by listening to him--he respects those girls."

Since retiring, Roy had gotten used to living in a fog. He spent time with his niece, met with the yoga mums, let old ladies in bars talk his ears off to their heart's content, but anything he did between those events was a drudgery--a slow painful effort to drag one foot in front of the other, metaphorically and physically.

So he couldn't have said what it was about Mae's offhand praise for the Richmond Whippet's new gaffer that rankled him into talking back.

"Is he any good though?"

"What was that?"

"Their new coach," Roy gestured with his wine glass at the television in the corner. "The American. Is he any good?"

Mae shrugged one shoulder. "He's gotten better."

"So not really then."

The look Mae gave him could've scoured paint from a wall. "Well, talent isn't everything. Is it, Mr. Kent?"

She left under the guise of check on the three men in the corner. Regulars, by the looks of it; and the three of them the only ones aside from Mae wearing supporting colors for the local team.

He hadn't watched a match in ages. Oh, he'd caught highlights--it was impossible not too--but the few times he'd tried, unfairness ballooned in his chest like an atom bomb, and he gave up.

He hadn't bothered to watch anything from the women's league either. What difference would it make to try watching a different league. Sure, he didn't know any of them the way he knew the men in the Premier League, but football was football and envy was envy.

From what little he'd seen so far, he didn't envy Richmond at all. Everton had them on the ropes.

Roy winced as Number 14 knocked one off the crossbar. It'd been a good attempt. A solid cross from Number 9 had put it in the path, but with no one else nearby she'd gone for a risky shot.

From what little he'd paid attention to, only 9 and 14 were making any actual progress on the pitch, with 9 working double time to cut up the field. Every time the ball dropped back down the center, Richmond lost possession. Every. Time.

It was Number 6 that was the problem. McNally, that was it. Red-head, center-mid, captain. Roy knew her by reputation. A tough, seasoned player, who'd gotten her fair collection of caps for England. She had the experience; it didn't make any fucking sense why she'd be the weak link.

Roy looked away. He took a gulp of his chardonnay and relished in the unpleasant way it stung his nose. It'd be masochism to keep watching.

He kept watching.

Within five minutes, he'd cracked it.

Number 6 refused to pass to Number 9.

The gameplay split off like a branching tree. Either 6 got possession, crossed to another player, and they lost it to Everton's deep defensive line; or 9 got it herself and took it up the field, at which point the entire Richmond side narrowed down to the actions of 9 and 14.

What the fuck was going on?

In the aerial cameras showed two Everton players marking Number 9. Number 6 crossed to Number 24, and 24 took it to the net only for a defender to block her out easily.

A close up lingered on Number 24. She couldn't have looked more upset with herself. Young thing. Good talent, bad nerves. Fixable with the right support.

Number 6 got into Number 9's face and shouted. So where's her fucking support?

The camera panned in on 6 and 9 as what looked like a shouting match took place between the teammates. There was McNally, red-haired and red-faced and openly swearing even if the mics couldn't pick it up, and then there was Number 9. A cut of a girl, strong featured and iron-jawed, with her forehead set down like she intended to ram McNally like a bull if the captain came any closer.

What a fucking mess.

The camera panned to the gaffer, who stood with his hands in his pockets and a frown under his mustache. He called neither player off.

The match went back into play and almost immediately Number 9 took a foul. A blatant hit, tackled before she could grab possession again. Everton had singled her out just as clearly as Roy had.

Number 6 stood off to the side while 14 and 24 argued with the ref. The captain watched in open annoyance as Number 9 levered herself off the ground with a wince, her left side stained with grass and a limp.

Some fucking captain.

Number 9 took position for a free kick, and her name finally flashed across the screen in a font large enough for Roy to read. Jamie Tartt. Tartt lined up for the kick, for all the good it would do when she was a good forty meters back--

Tartt walloped the ball cleanly into the net.

A frisson of electricity ran down Roy's spine.

The lads at the end of the bar broke into cheers.

Half of the Richmond Whippets descended on Tartt. The other half shuffled around in discontent.

Number 24--Obisanya--nodded at Tartt, who nodded back. They didn't hug.

Extricating herself from (half) of her teammates, Tartt threw an arm around the only person she'd passed to all night--14, Rojas. Heads pressed together, headband to matching headband, they looked furtive and serious in their two-person huddle.

The camera panned back to the gaffer. He clapped but he didn't celebrate.

The whole thing was bizarre.

No, Mae was right; talent wasn't everything. Because Richmond had talent--what a spectacular fucking goal--and they were a fucking mess, like nothing Roy had ever witnessed before in his career.

If Mae was willing to put up with him, he might have to come back for the next match. Who knew, maybe he'd try swinging by on an off-match day to catch their gaffer and give him a piece of his mind.

Finally, something to look forward to. His sister would be so proud.

#genderswap au #i go back and forth on how to swap the coaching staff without losing the impetus of Ted and Rebecca's relationship #particularly the Divorcing Rupert of it all #and I do have a genderswapped Roy in my back pocket #but i also have this version--where I get to explore a bit of How Roy Exists if he had stayed at Chelsea and never met Ted when he did #i also get to give Roy an older version of a team of girls who are unfazed and delighted by the angry sweary beardy man yelling at him #so that delights me too #anyways I have lots of thoughts and this was supposed to be a short writing sprint #it is not short #whoops #ted lasso #roy kent #jamie tartt #writing snippet #if this one seems rougher than the other stuff it is because I am still braindead at finally finishing chapter one of the other thing

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roseluwakcoffee · 7 months

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Okay I know v3 leaves a lot up to interpretation but the idea of it is actually just insane. So you’re telling me there’s a world where danganronpa becomes so fucking popular and widespread that it turns from a video game to an anime and gets so many seasons and different types of adaptations that 50 seasons in its now an actual real, live killing game where people volunteer to have their memories wiped and turned into fictional characters written up by someone like tsumugi and pitted in a real-life killing game set up in which there is a very good chance that you will definitely be murdered or executed? And just everyone tunes in to watch and participate, even your friends and family? And don’t get me started on what the fuck they even mean by ‘ultimate real fiction’ like

#just thinking abt v3 #i actually really love the final chapter and general story #the character writing... not so much but i'll give them a pass bc of how strange its already supposed to be #i kind of like the idea of a world thats so positive that ppl offset it by watching something abhorrent like danganronpa #its so weird tho. like why #you could also say that even in a world without despair ppl end up craving it so something like danganronpa is inevitable #but that might be thinking too deep #drv3 #ndrv3 #danganronpa

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avirael · 2 months

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I tried

The rain loudly pounded against the windows in the almost dark and silent room. It was nearly midnight and all A’viloh could think in this moment was that Rael had been right. He couldn’t sleep, or didn’t dare to, so he had started to wander around and found himself staring at the frosted glass which rattled shaken by the storm outside. The rhythm of the raindrops against the glass surface suddenly had seemed almost hypnotic to him. The rain distracted him from his thoughts with it’s almost soothing pattern. In a way it was beautiful. As if it tried to weep the tears A’viloh had been surprised to find himself unable to cry.

Then thunder rumbled outside and the glow of lightning flooded into the room for a short moment, illuminating the empty tables around him. Bright. Blinding. It reminded him of the flash of light when their aether blade finally had shattered the barriers that had protected Nabriales and made the Ascian burn away to nothingness. It reminded him of the reason he wasn’t asleep. Of Moenbryda.

He hadn’t known her very well, but he had somehow instantly liked her. There had been a cheerful honesty in her. And also unwavering determination. Both were things he had admired her for. He still couldn’t understand that she was gone. Someone so strong and lively as her simply vanished. Dissolved to nothing but aether.

He hadn’t realised her intention. Only when it had been to late. Him and Rael had needed all their concentration to keep the raging Ascian from breaking his prison. Hand in hand like back in the Praetorium, their powers combined, they had tried so hard to get it right this time. There was no telling what this enraged Ascian in front of them would do if he was given a second chance to strike at them.

Suddenly he had noticed Moenbryda, trudging towards the beam of light. As he realised what she was doing he considered to stop it. He considered the consequences. Rael held his hand so tightly, unwavering just like Moenbryda. Then it had been too late to make a choice. She had already made hers. Moenbryda was gone.

It was strangely unreal. They had sacrificed her life to take another one. It sounded wrong, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself that it had been necessary. And he had allowed it. Rael argued that it had been her decision. She wanted it that way. A’viloh doubted that someone as alive as her had truly wanted to die. She had been fatally wounded, Rael noted. But the Viera refused to say if they would have been able to heal her. A’vi was convinced they could have saved her. But she had chosen her master’s path instead and they had just watched.

After everything that had happened these last few months, A’viloh had been disillusioned about the nature of the Scion’s work. It was a dangerous path and it was paved with the lifes of their lost comrades. He hadn’t expected this to change but he had hoped that everything would be a little more quiet, a little more easy now. At least for a while.

I’m so sorry, he had simply said without looking up to the Elezen in front of him. I wish we could have saved her. A’viloh wasn’t sure if he had read all the signs and quips correctly but he was at least sure that Urianger had meant a lot to Moenbryda. He had been one of her last thoughts after all. And while the Elezen seemed as calm as ever, there was also a sadness in his voice that felt too familiar.

Another thunder rolled through the air, another burst of light. He trembled. What a day it had been. Exhausted he sank down onto one of the cushioned benches and stretched himself out, once again concentrating on the sound of rain to ease his mind. He was so tired.

He still lay there on his back staring up at the windows when the patter of raindrops was joined by the noise of footsteps on stone tiles echoing through the room. Lazily the Miqo’te let his head tilt sideways and found Thancred walking down the corridor. His wobbly gait betrayed where he had been.

He slightly winced as he noticed A’viloh there. In the almost-darkness of the room the Miqo’te with his glowing green eyes was quite a startling view for anyone who wasn’t used to it.

“A’viloh…? Is that you…? By the Twelve… you scared me! What are you doing here at this hour?”, Thancred’s voice was slower than usual, less clear and slightly slurred.

“Don’t know. Listening to the rain I guess…”, A’viloh sat up and shrugged. “What are YOU doing here at this hour?”

It was a question he didn’t need to ask but he felt like asking it anyway just to see what he would answer. But Thancred just laughed loudly. Then silence.

For a moment A’viloh thought about it before deciding to speak again.

“Do you know what day is today?”

Thancred looked at him in confusion.

“What day?… A fucking horrible one? Apart from that?…. Sorry, to be honest I’d have to look up what date it is, yet alone what you mean…”

“One years ago today I first arrived in Ul’dah.”, A’viloh explained and his lips twitched to a painful smile for a second. “To learn how to become stronger, to be able to protect the people I care about.”

“Oh! I didn’t know that.”, he replied as if it surprised him that he didn’t. “I think you did get quite good at that, huh?”

Given the current situation it sounded like mockery, although he probably didn’t mean it that way.

“Did I though?”, A’vi asked bitterly. “Have I not failed to do so just today?”

“Don’t blame yourself for this.”, the hyur protested. “Think instead about all the lives you saved since you started your journey!”

A’viloh scoffed. “You might as well say, think about all the lives that were lost since then…”

“No! You’re not looking at it the right way!”, Thancred shook his head vehemently and his whole body slightly swayed with the movement. Then he stumbled over to the bench and sat down next to A’vi. “The lives that you saved, they would have been lost too, if you hadn’t given your best.”

It wasn’t as easy as he made it sound. The deaths he hadn’t been able to prevent weighed so much heavier than everything else. A’viloh sighed. “But maybe my best was not good enough…”

Thancred once again shook his head. He turned to A’viloh and looked him directly in the eyes, leaning closer than he probably would have if he wasn’t drunk.

“Your best was enough for me.”

A’viloh recoiled, smelling the alcohol on the other’s breath. It made him feel nauseous, although he knew that Thancred wouldn’t harm him. Or at least he thought so. He hoped. But how could he really know? Some days A’viloh thought there were two Thancreds. The kind man, who had blamed himself for things beyond his control, the one A’viloh had felt strangely connected to and then this one here in front of him, which hurt to look at. Out of control and somehow uncaring. Some days A’viloh felt like there were hundreds of versions of him, each with a different mask to hide behind. But in the end they were all the same person. A person A’viloh wasn’t sure how to feel about.

Rael was right. The second time today, he noted. He began to think that they were right about most things. Maybe he should start to listen to them a little more often when they told him something he didn’t want to believe. He could vividly hear the viera’s voice in his head.

Why him of all people, A’vi? He’s really not a good person!

Probably not…

THIS is what you want?

Absolutely not.

“You’re drunk.” A’viloh deflected.

Thancred chuckled and sat back.

“Guilty as charged! But you know what they say: Drunk people and children always tell the truth.”

A’viloh laughed but it wasn’t the kind of laugh one laughed when something was funny. “If you say so…”

“You don’t believe me?”, he asked with a chuckle.

A’viloh didn’t answer.

For a few seconds Thancred stared at him, then he sighed. “At least believe me with one thing: You did more than enough. You and Rael, you two achieved so much in so little time. The same cannot be said for us? What have we achieved? Me specifically? Where were we when you needed us? Would we only have arrived a few moments sooner. Just a few moments…”

But it was too late for that now.

“You know, I tell myself that it was necessary. That killing the Ascian was worth it. But I don’t know if I can really believe this…”

Thancred slowly nodded and stretched uncomfortably, putting one arm on the back rest. “I’m not going to say that there wasn’t another way, maybe there was... But… the result, that’s what’s important. One less of them is a good thing…”, he mused and then grimaced. “I just wish you would have gotten him too… Some days I’m scared that he will return… That he isn’t done with me yet…”

In a way this surprised A’viloh. He hadn’t ever wondered how Thancred felt about this. How he had experienced the time he had been under Lahabrea’s control. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be…“

A moment they just sat there in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, fighting their own demons.

Then suddenly Thancred spoke. “You are right…”

“Hm?”

He smiled, calmly looking up to the tall windows. “The rain. You said you were listening to it… it’s weirdly soothing.”

A’viloh smiled too. “It is.”

For a while they listened to the patter of the raindrops, the howling of the wind and the occasional roll of thunder.

Finally A’viloh took a deep breath. “Can I ask you something?”

Silence.

“Thancred?”, he asked and turned to look at him. His head slightly tilted sideways, he had fallen asleep right where he sat. It was funny how harmless he looked. Not particularly peaceful. Still troubled and tired. But more honest somehow. More real.

Silently A’viloh stood up, tiptoed through the room and took a big white tablecloth out of one of F’lhaminn’s cupboards. It’s better than nothing, he thought as he gently covered the hyur with his impromptu-blanket.

“Sleep well.”, he whispered and then returned to his room.

#final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv #ff14 #ffxiv writing #ff14 screenshots #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv gpose #gpose #a'viloh tia #thancred waters #the picture is supposed to be like this because of the lightning 🙈#I considered photoshopping it a little but I’m to lazy right now 🙈#after the Rael-centered chapter about Thancred I thought I needed an insight to A’vi’s thoughts too

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