"See that star? The large, blue one, shimmering?" Zenos says, pointing up. It's a rare cool night in Thavnair, and he and Eifablyss had climbed to the tallest peak they could find to lay on their backs and stargaze.
"Mhm," says Eifablyss.
"That one is called Vallux. It and the the stars surrounding it—Gorisonus, Lariminia, Parinix, Curia, and Fogulla," he points at each one, "—make up the constellation Waterwheel."
Eifablyss makes a noise of wonder. The expanse of the night sky is precious to her—its beauty, its mystery, its great capacity for infinity. Often she wonders if it would one day be possible to escape up there. To explore. "How did they even find it, among all these other stars? How did they decide what it would be called?"
"I don't know."
"What!" Eifablyss rolls over onto her stomach, propping her chin up with her fists so she can see his inscrutable expression. "But you know everything. At least when it comes to things like this."
"I know a great many things, my dear," he says, tapping the tip of her nose—a gesture she hates, and she wrinkles it in response. "But not everything."
Again, a nagging question bubbles to the surface of her mind. Something she noticed long ago, and had pondered for years, but has never mentioned. Perhaps now, under the watchful gaze of Vallux, is the time to ask.
"If you know a great many things...," Eifablyss posits carefully, watching her father for any sign of distaste. "Do you know why you and I have pearls in our foreheads, but Mama doesn't? Or anyone else I see around here?"
This sort of question always makes her palms sweat. She's asked this one in particular before, but it's always go ask your father or I'll tell you when you're older. Ever since she was old enough to know the basics of reproduction, she's known she's adopted—she would have to be an utter fool not to—but any questions of origin, regarding her own or her parents', always leave her with the same half-hearted non-answers and dissatisfaction. She watches him carefully for any dismissive gestures or disgruntled looks.
He offers neither. Instead, he seems collected as always, silently mulling it over. He's the thoughtful type, she knows, but this time it bothers her. How many possible answers could there be?
She feels like she's been staring at him for hours when he finally speaks. "Your mother is a Roegadyn," he says, and she holds her breath for untold moments. "Members of her race are tall, broad, muscular, with square jaws and square noses. You and I, sweet shade...," He rolls his head to meet her transfixed, violet eyes. "Are Garlean."
She releases the heavy breath she'd been carrying, all her apprehension dissipating like smoke. Somehow she still feels disappointed.
"Oh," she says, turning to look at the sky again. "Well... what does that mean?"
"It means we are largely indistinguishable from Hyur, save for our distinctive third eyes." Anticipating her next question, he continues. "Our third eyes allow us superb spatial awareness, at the expense of an inability to manipulate aether."
"Manipulate aether...?" She blinks, the wheels turning. "Wait, so we can't use magic?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"Not even a little."
"Ugh!" Eifablyss collapses onto her back, arms and legs splayed like a starfish. Her left arm, having fallen upon Zenos' chest, finds itself with his large, warm hand embracing it. "That's not fair."
He rubs his thumb over her palm. "Were I capable of it, I would have already taught it to you."
Eifablyss believes that. She looks at him with something like pity, though they sit in the same miserable boat. "Is that why we have to hide them when we go out? Would people mock us?"
The telling silence of approaching disappointment fills the air. "No," says Zenos. "That, I will tell you when you're ready."
Sorqaq'tani dares to break the pregnant pause with words that sink Radnashiri's heart like lead. Two years prior, she would not have dared to stand up to them the way she is now, docile and small as she was, but their trials had hardened her into a fierce opponent. If only she were still that meek thing now.
"He nearly killed both of us at our strongest. And you've warred with him for centuries, and you still—,"
Radnashiri wheels around on their heel, fury twisting their face. "You know nothing of my struggle."
Sorqaq'tani stares, incredulous. "I know one thing," she says, using all fifty-six ilms of her height. "I know you've not once won."
Aether flickers around Radnashiri like a gathering storm. Their face is controlled, taut, yet beneath the surface lies thousands of years of rage begging to be released upon their insolent companion. Sorqaq'tani sees it, too, eyes glancing down to their twitching tail before again meeting their gaze.
"There's only one way." Her voice trembles, but she does not falter. She grabs Radnashiri's hand and they do not flinch. "You have to give yourself up to me, like Ardbert."
Rage quickly gives way to a deep horror. They snatch their hand away like they've touched something boiling.
"No." Their voice is tight, gripped with anguish. "I am not killing myself."
"Separately, we might be too weak." In the wake of Radnashiri's growing dread, Sorqaq'tani continues to muse. "But maybe if all our souls were combined into one being... Maybe I should ask Urianger...,"
"I said no." This time, their denial sends an aetheric shockwave across their shared Pendants room. Not a big one, but enough to knock over some smaller items—and to make Sorqaq'tani momentarily return to her small, timid self. Radnashiri selfishly wishes it was a permanent reversion. "After thousands upon thousands of years, I am not laying my body at your feet just so you can get what you want." Their sharp Xaela teeth bare; their claws curl at their sides. "I am not throwing all of that away. All my sacrifice—all my loss—it will not be all for naught."
Sorqaq'tani had drawn her hands to her chest, shrinking into herself, something she used to often in the face of great terror. Radnashiri stares her down and thinks they've won.
"You sound just like him."
Their breath catches in their throat. All threat and intimidation melt helplessly off their frame as the words sink deep into their heart, mingling with the despair and the anger and the sick, sick loneliness.
Radnashiri leaves the room without another word.
-
They sit at the edge of the Thirstless Shore and wait.
"You can just do it, you know." That infuriating, lilting voice at last reaches their horns. "Sink beneath the waves, never come back up. She's begging you to, anyway."
Radnashiri does not even open their eyes. "If I won't do it to save the Star, what makes you think I will just because?"
"It was worth a try." Emet-Selch squats besides them and still they do nothing physically to acknowledge his presence. "The way your mind works is as infuriating as it is inscrutable."
They snort, amused. When Emet-Selch asks what's so funny, they do not deign to answer. Instead, they ask, "Why are you here?"
"I can't pay a visit to an old friend?"
This time, they do turn to look at him, offering a cold stare that lets him know they're thinking he's full of shit.
He sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. I was hoping to emotionally manipulate you into committing suicide. Happy?"
"You must be truly desperate to resort to a method so low."
"You've been a thorn in my side for millennia." His tone changes ever so slightly, a threatening undercurrent painting the words. "Of course I'd do anything to be rid of you."
At this, Radnashiri glances at him out of the corner of their eye. "Anything?"
"Yes, anything. Why? What do you want?"
Carefully, they gauge his expression. Impenetrable as always. When next they speak, they don't break their gaze.
"Make me an Ascian, Emet-Selch."
It is Emet-Selch's turn to scoff, an action which quickly evolves into full laughter. "You? An Ascian? After all these centuries you've spent trying to kill me, you expect me to accept you with open arms and welcome you into my ranks?"
Radnashiri closes their eyes, the darkness centering them. “I’m tired,” they say. “I’m tired of this burden. This ache. I’m tired of... not being understood.”
Emet-Selch balks. “Understood?”
"Don't play dumb with me, Emet-Selch." Their tone is more severe than they'd intended. "You saw my confrontation with Tani. You know exactly what I mean."
His expression is calm, but not kind. "Surely you are not implying what I think you are."
"That you and I are more alike than we are different?" To say it disgusts them. They are who they are because of his kind bringing destruction to the Thirteenth. And yet...
They imagine their words as a claw, gripping tight around Emet-Selch's throat. "I am."
Emet-Selch narrows his eyes. "To insinuate we have anything in common is an insult to even the lowest creatures that roamed Etheirys."
"Perhaps." Radnashiri will concede this. They will not let slip the reins of the conversation. "And yet we do, don’t we? Six thousand years have I been alive, after losing my home, my friends, my face… my name." They bore holes into Emet-Selch’s face, who sneers. "You cannot say our experiences do not parallel."
For once, the man is silent. They are gaining ground.
"Regardless," Emet-Selch says at last, composing himself. Dodging the truth entirely rather than facing it. Radnashiri wonders how he might respond to being killed. "You've made your stance clear these past thousands of years. I struggle to believe you’d ask me for forgiveness."
"I'm not," they say. "I don’t want forgiveness. I want acceptance."
A scoff. "Your friends don’t accept you?"
"They’re not my friends." The response is quick and sharp. Sharper, even, than they’d like. Is it true? Does it matter? "They never were."
"And I am?"
"No. But you understand, don’t you?"
Emet-Selch’s jaw tightens.
Radnashiri looks away at the still waters of the Source. "What was that name you called me," they say, voice faraway, "two or three lifetimes ago? You saw my aether and let it slip."
"You don't recall your own name, or any of the others you've had since, yet you remember that?" Emet-Selch's words are spit through clenched teeth. At the cost of Radnashiri's own sanity, slowly, he unravels.
"You of all should know that memory is fickle."
"Memory," he echos, voice dripping with mockery. "Don't you speak to me of memory."
It feels less like a deflection and more like a stuck nerve. Radnashiri eyes him carefully. Both of them are cornered animals, waiting for the other to pounce first. They can feel his predatory eyes on them, and he mumbles something.
They hazard a guess, and instead of saying what, they say, "Yes?"
"Mnemosyne. You remembered after all." For just a moment—a fleeting, wistful moment—a spark of longing falls across his face.
"It's a lovely name," they say. Each breath they take is shallower than the last; they are inching ever closer. "It would be nice to return to it."
Emet-Selch snaps out of any reverie that might have taken him, his voice a blade. "I never said I would acquiesce."
They drudge one last scrap of muddled memory to the surface of their addled mind; for all their struggling to recall anything about themselves or their home, this tiny shred has burned itself into every corner of their mind. Fickle indeed. Perhaps their subconscious knew they would someday need it.
"Please, Hades."
The Ascian sigil flashes on Emet-Selch’s face for the briefest of moments, but flash it does. "You are not worthy to use that name!"
"Then make me worthy." Radnashiri matches him in passion, voice soaring over the waveless Source. They face him fully, their larger body cutting an imposing figure, aether sparks haloing them in a display of raw desperation. "Make me worthy of it. Restore my memories. Make me Azem!"
Emet-Selch stares at them, and, if Radnashiri knew no better, they might say that for just a moment, he looked vulnerable.
"Fine," he spits, and pulls them in roughly at the waist. His other hand appears flush against their face, nose to palm, the tips of his gloved fingers pressing into their scaled flesh. "This will hurt."
And there, on the Thirstless Shore, do the memories come rushing forth.
trigger warnings: gore, technically. it's going to get weird.
part 2 of the first prompt, envoy.
Apathy and hatred—Solkansa's two constant companions during her trials on the First. As good as a companion the Exarch had tried to be, the void that fills her is malms wide and deeper still. Since Zenos' neck was severed to the bone, so too was her joy—how else was she to feel, having had the other half of her soul ripped from her? To meet someone—the first person ever—to see her for who she is, what she is, and then choose the edge of a blade instead of a life of revelry. A rare and searing pain.
And to then be stuck with people who hate you to save a world you do not care for. Little wonder that she is pained.
Even now, as she offers to ferry the Scions' souls back from the First—not by choice—she moves as if within a thick fog. When Krile asks her how they are faring, once she's returned to the Rising Stones, Solkansa considers not even deigning to respond.
She doesn't get the chance.
Before she would have been able to open her mouth, a panicked Miqo'te woman bursts through the doors carrying an ornate box under her arm.
"Package delivery." She holds it at arm's length, breathing heavily though a scarf pulled tight in an effort to create a makeshift mask. It's a pretty, handcrafted thing, with obsidian and gold, but she carries it like a cursed object. When, after a few moments, no one moves to retrieve it, she says in a small voice, "please take it."
Tataru and Krile exchange a glance. "May I ask who sent it?" says Tataru.
The Miqo'te shakes her head vigorously. "I don't know. I don't know. It's just—it's for the Scions. Please—please let me get rid of it."
"Well," says Tataru, her voice dripping with hesitance. "All right."
A waterfall of thanks pours out of the Miqo'te's mouth as she approaches to take it, but before it can exchange hands, Tataru recoils.
"Ugh!" She slaps both hands over her nose. "What is that smell?"
"I know, that's why I—," The Miqo'te seems to swallow a retch. "Don't make me say it, please. Don't...,"
Solkansa sighs a leaden sigh. It seems even the trivial task of accepting a package must be dropped onto her overburdened shoulders. Silently, she walks forward and snatches the box out of the Miqo'te's hands, who stammers thanks and runs back out the door.
The odious stench hits her nose, and she recognizes it immediately. Rotting flesh. Her eye narrows. A threat? She checks the note and inhales sharply at its three words.
'To my friend.'
Could it be...?
With trembling fingers, she opens it. A single, decaying finger sits daintily atop a folded letter, from which the reek stems. A perfect piece of putrid flesh—she smiles at the thought of Zenos butchering a body. She picks it up as it were a precious gem. Dare she let herself believe it is actually from him, and not an imitator...?
Quickly, she sets it down to read the letter beneath.
My dearest friend,
It is my greatest joy to send notice of my return to my own flesh. Loathe have I been to keep you waiting—I assure you each moment is as torturous for you as it is for me. In an effort to show the depths of my gratitude for your patience, I have enclosed a gift that I hope is as precious as I believe it is: my father's left index finger, butchered by my own hand. You were right when you told me patricide is among the greatest thrills.
My deepest apologies for my absence in the delivery; much work must be done in preparation for next we meet.
Your dearest enemy,
Zenos yae Galvus
Solkansa's blood sings. She feels lighter than she ever has; a warmth surges through every limb, pours out each pore. She's never smiled so hard her face hurts, and yet she finds herself doing it now. Fury, her eyes even sting with joyful tears.
"Solkansa," hazards Krile from behind her. "What is it?"
She turns, and her expression must be truly horrifying, for both of them seem taken aback. With her golden eye shining and a grin no one else has ever seen, she says, "He's alive. Zenos is alive."
i feel like "they're absolutely insane & obsessed with each other" is self-evident when i write my zenos ship but not so when i write my g'raha ship because people are usually normal with g'raha. well i need you to know that it is my divine mission to make g'raha tia worse
G'raha is in the Noumenon doing some recreational reading on the First Astral Era when someone manifests behind him and bites his ear.
A small, strangled noise escapes him, all his hair on end and his tail shocked upright. "Curses—," he hisses, because who else on Hydaelyn's sapphire globe would dare to do such a thing? "You're going to give me a heart attack some day."
"At least you'll die with whom you love," she sing-songs, giving his tail one long stroke. Lighting bolts dance up every bone in his spine. "Ruby Red," she continues, leaning down to meet his gaze. "I've a surprise for you. Visit my chambers when you're finished, yes?"
When you're done. Awfully gracious of her to allow for him the dignity of pretending she doesn't know he will simply chase her shadow like a lost puppy.
Indeed, he watches her walk off—restraining himself from fixating on her generous behind—and promptly shelves his book to tail her. Close, but not too close. It's a dance they've performed before; G'raha knows exactly the range of her Viera ears, what paths she expects him to take. The first time, it felt shameful. Now, it's simply a game.
He counts to thirty before entering her room. When he does, she's leaning backwards on the table, both palms flat behind her and ankles crossed. As always, her outfit is tantalizing; black, laced-up leather that leaves little to the imagination. His heart thrums in his ears.
"Good boy," she says, and already his cheeks flush. "Come closer."
He does, and when they are nearly flush against each other she laces his fingers with hers. Like this, he must crane his neck to look her in the eye, and her breasts are certainly doing no favors to aid him.
"Your gift," she says, "is a puzzle. I have hidden something somewhere on my person that I urge you to find. Good luck."
G'raha's ears flatten. Puzzles and games are a habit of theirs, but rarely are they so... intimate.
He drums his fingers on the backs of her hands. "Where should I start?"
"Wherever you like, sweet one."
Gods, she knows exactly what to say to make him weak. He kneels and begins gripping her ankle, focusing to see if he can feel anything beneath the leather. His hands trace up her leg like this, searching for anything new—stopping just below her crotch. Then he does the other leg, then her arms. Each moment he spends touching her is another moment the weight of her gaze heats him.
Curses grins. "You've run out of distractions."
G'raha laughs, nervous excitement coloring the noise. "It seems I have."
He presses against her, reaching around to grope her ass, then her crotch. She sighs, and though he cannot see her face he imagines what it must look like and his pulse quickens.
Still nothing. His searching hands travel up her stomach, her back, and finally to her breasts—and his ears perk up in surprise.
"Piercings," he says, eyes glittering. "You've pierced your nipples."
"And a fine job I think I've done, too." To his barely-contained excitement, she peels off her top, revealing a pair of rings run through the peak of her nipples.
After a brief moment, to allow his arousal fully to consume his body and for his thoughts to piece themselves together, she prompts, "Do you like them?"
"Yes." He tries not to nod too vigorously. "Very much, my lady."
"Good." She cups his face with both hands. "Because you're going to be spending quite a bit of time with them."
Standing before the shattered gates of Ala Mhigo castle, Solkansa's blood races within her veins. Her now-blind eye—scar still fresh and tender, still throbbing with her pulse—fixes with her healthy one at the smoldering entrance. The cries for liberation around her fall meaninglessly at her feet. They are nothing. What she wants—in her heart of hearts, in her soul's darkest depths—is not to free the people of Ala Mhigo.
"Are you ready?" Alphinaud prompts, voice tinged with apprehension. Solkansa, all but trembling with anticipation, does not face him to offer an affirmative nod.
"Solkansa." Lyse's voice, firm and edged with malice, breaks through her focus. This time, she does turn to her, looking down at Lyse's warm, blue eyes with her cold, gold one. Her expression is as stony as the bricks that make up the great structure upon which they stand.
"Do not fuck this up."
The words settle into Solkansa and tickle her. She thinks sabotage is upon what she dwells?
Slowly, her face splits into a wild, manic grin.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Lyse stiffens.
"Whenever you're ready," calls Raubahn. And like a dog of war straining its lead, barking viciously at its enemies across the battlefield, choking itself with its collar in its fervor finally, finally being slipped loose, Solkansa surges forth.
When her blade splits the first body the blood that sprays across her flesh warms her. The slice had been easy, like cutting air, yet still her enemies come; it is not until the floor is painted as red as her hair that the screaming begins. Beautiful songbirds sent by Halone Herself come to hail her glory.
One by one the Garleans fall, guts spilled onto their boots, heads falling into their comrade's laps, severed limbs dropping helplessly to the floor. Little opportunity has she to let her true self shine like this; her compatriots would not shed tears for Garlemald, and neither would the Prince. With her enemy she dances, wielding the blade her friend had so graciously bestowed upon her, prettying it up with his mens' blood.
All this—all this!—and it is still only the prelude. What a glorious day, she thinks, separating a man's head from his body. What a truly glorious day.
When at last the waves cease, when the final meek soldier draws her last breath and crumples to the ground, Solkansa pushes forth the doors to the throne room in one grand motion. And there he sits, the Crown Prince, whose face lights up when his eyes settle upon her.
"My friend," he says, drawing his weapon. "I am pleased to see you did not decline my invitation."
Halone sings praises in her ears. This time, when she offers her wild, manic grin, blood that is not her own stains her teeth.
"And if you need anything at all," says Solkansa in her gentlest voice, taking great care to ensure her daughter's bandaged palm is not disturbed as she tucks her in. "I'll only be downstairs, yes?"
"I know, Mama." Eifablyss snuggles deep beneath the sheets as well as she can without hurting herself. "I'll be fine, though. I promise."
Solkansa leans down, kissing her forehead. "I love you. Sleep sweet."
"I love you too. G'night, Mama."
Solkansa does not leave until she's certain her little shade has indeed fallen into deep slumber, when she finally descends the steps as quiet as she can manage. When she reaches the bottom, all pretense promptly drops—she strides over to where Zenos sits and slaps him squarely across his cheek.
"What the fuck were you thinking, telling her about your palm?"
Zenos is nonplussed, rubbing where he was struck almost thoughtfully. Coincidentally, with the very hand in question. "I did no such thing. She came to that conclusion all on her own."
"She—," Solkansa looks in disbelief up to the loft, where their daughter softly sleeps. "You're joking."
"I am not." He rises to match her in height. Arguments are seldom, but when they happen, there are always on even ground. "She met your friend with the crystal atop his staff, saw my scar, and knows our kind is incapable of manipulating aether." He, too, turns to face the loft. "She merely put two and two together."
They sit in silence for a few humid moments, the nighttime Thavnairian jungle singing its lullabies.
"And she defeated me for the first time."
"She could have died."
"It was a calculated risk." Zenos dares to wrap and arm around Solkansa's shoulders, but it's a motion to which she does not object. "Just as it was when I was her age. She's cleverer than you give her credit for."
Something heavy and dark sinks its talons into Solkansa's shoulders—the inescapable hand of change. The cycle's wheel turns and turns. She thinks of the hand dealt her own parents, and the hand dealt to Zenos'.
Fate has not yet run its course. But it will.
"Myna," says Solkansa, voice distant. "Do you suppose she'll end up stronger than us?"
"Oh, she will." The confidence and pride in his voice is palpable. "There is no other way for her to be, with us as her progenitors."
Blood on their hands. Blood on their daughter's.
"Indeed," she murmurs, pulling Zenos into an embrace that swallows them whole.
from the 2021 prompt list.
trigger warnings: murder, death by burning
Pain. Pain. Pain. Clutching head of exploding crimson, right eye abyss-dark from skull cleaved clean from crown to chin. Wandering aimless through smoking earth, charred soil and suffocated life guiding the way through the roar-static of agonized mind. The mind. The mind. Overtaken by something unseen, something dripping fury and trembling power but the pain looms ever great. Pain. Pain.
Warm room, fire crackling. Unfamiliar to you, but safe all the same. From your bed you watch a withered Hyur man tend to a wounded Elezen. You see that he and you are the only ill in this establishment—turning your head (a painful motion you immediately regret) reveals a small and humble home. Someone's makeshift clinic. Where, you don't know. But you're glad to be sheltered within it.
The man looks up and a grin splits his face. "Ah!" he says, clapping his hands together. "I see Thal wasn't ready to take you yet!"
He stands up to move to your bedside. A tall man, a Highlander, with a round, friendly face. Little wonder why he's chosen to take care of the injured out of his own home.
"Saw you stumbling out of the Carteneau Flats. There'd been few injured, but...," Sheepishly, he turns to the Elezen. "Not none."
"Anyway." He attempts to keep his spirits high. "I'm Malcolm. I can call you...?"
You stare at his extended hand and reach back as far as you can into the fog of your memory. Grasping fruitlessly for a name, a word, a friend, a face... nothing. All there is is the smoldering fields of Carteneau and the hissing in your mind. Hands swiping at nothing but smoke. Your stare remains blank as you take his hand. His grip is firm and fatherlike.
"Ah, well...," He offers a shrug. "You've quite quite the injury there. I'm surprised you woke up at all. Suppose asking for your name might be a bit much."
"You."
A second voice. Both of you turn to face it. The Elezen had risen from his slumber, his golden eyes filled with rage. Is he speaking to you?
"You fucking traitorous bitch. You left us—you abandoned us!"
Your head throbs as a surge in your mind's static pulses through your brain, heartbeat quickening. This man's face means nothing to you, but it means something to your body. There's a fire burning through your veins.
"Larimien, please," Malcolm hurries to his side., but the friendly hand on his shoulder is roughly shoved off.
"Don't fucking start, Malcolm. You don't know what she did. You don't know what she's done."
It's getting louder. You realize, too late, that the static overtaking your mind is that of a dragon's roar. The fire in your veins is a dragon's rage. And here it flows, unbidden, ready to seize its threat.
Larimien suddenly looks very scared. "Nophica's tits, your eye—,"
"Malcolm," you say, throat dry. Your limbs are not your own, and soon, neither will your mind. "I'm going to hurt you."
When next you wake it is among the scorched ruins of a small cabin. Two bodies, unmoving, blackened with ash. Weeping, wailing, trembling, you walk away from the wreckage, looking for solace that is not waiting.
G'raha moves his hips frantically on top of her, shuddering as his entire body is overwhelmed by ecstasy. Curses thrusts upwards into him, egging on his climax, and he trembles and curls inwards as lurid moans escape him.
When he finishes, he collapses on top of her instead of pushing off. They dissolve into a messy fit of kisses, with little care for what their lips touch so long as their skin does not part. When at last the energy for this escapes them, G'raha merely lays on top of her, her arms wrapped around him in a blissful embrace. Like this, he can hear her heartbeat; th-thump, th-thump, th-thump.
"Curses," he breathes, looking at her as if she's a Goddess incarnate. Wonder and devotion. "I would do anything for you."
Curses peers at him with her pale violet eyes. "Anything?"
"Truly," he says. "Anything you ask, and it is yours."
Th-thump, th-thump.
She reaches up to stroke his hair, eliciting a purr. "You're like my little dog."
A kind of shock shoots through him and he laughs. "If you would like to think of me as such."
She sits up, forcing him onto her lap. Like this their difference in size is much more apparent; she, nearly two fulms taller and much broader in frame, dwarfs him. The hand that had been petting him moves lazily downwards, gracing his skin with the lightest of touches. He shudders.
"My little dog," she says, hand under his chin. "Bark for me."
Heat rises to his cheeks and he fails at suppressing a laugh. "Really?"
Her smile is gentle, but unwavering. "Dogs don't ask questions, dear," she says. "They bark."
Face as red as his hair and his tail flickering behind him, he looks her in the eye and says, "Woof."
This draws laughs from both of them, ensnared in the ridiculousness of it all. But beneath it lies shards of undeniable truth.
"Not like that," says Curses after her fit. "A real bark, like a real dog."
G'raha swallows, ears flat against his head. When he summons the courage and the primitivity in his throat, he barks at her.
"Shy boy," she says, mesmerized, and it had indeed been a small noise. "Louder."
He obeys. This time he barks a bit louder, with ferocity touching his voice. But still it doesn't satisfy her and she again demands, "louder."
At last he unleashes as much power as he can muster, gnashing his teeth and growling in her face. The feral nature of her command overtake him—his tail thrashes, his ears flatten, his sharp Seeker canines threatening to scrape her corpse-pale face in his frenzy.
When he's satisfied with himself, he sits back and gazes at Curses with big, expectant eyes.
She is grinning ear to ear. "Good boy," she coos, gripping either side of his face and showering him with kisses. "You are perfect. My perfect, perfect Raha."
There was a certain pride in being chosen to deliver a package to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. After all the world-saving and war-ending and nation-liberating and surely other heroic deeds that simply haven't yet passed N'teya's ears, they'd garnered a certain reputation. Sure, being a delivery girl isn't exactly glamorous or lifesaving work, but nonetheless being the hands to carry a package onto the Scions' doorstep was something to be excited about.
Strange, then, that when Villenoix hands the ostentatious box to her, he seems all too glad to be rid of it.
"Gods above, please." The passion is out of place for a man usually so nonchalant about his work. "I can't stand the smell any longer."
"The smell?" N'teya dares to sound incredulous, but then it hits her. Decay. Rot. Rancid meat, like when she and her siblings accidentally let some dodo go bad before preserving it. It's all she can do to not double over and throw up her lunch. She slaps a hand over her mouth on instinct, and she must look truly ill, because Villenoix looks pained.
"I do not envy you and your Miqo'te nose."
"What on Hydaelyn is—," she turns the box over, inspecting it. It's much too pretty for its horrid stench, with deep red wood, gold inlays, and shining black stone. Attached is a little red ribbon and a note. When she checks it, all it says is, 'To my friend.' "For the Scions? Are you sure? Did they order rotting steaks?"
All Villenoix can offer is a shrug. "Fuck if I know. I don't think anyone does. No one could even answer when I asked who sent the thing."
Well, N'teya doesn't like that. But she has a job to do.
The trip from the Black Shroud to Mor Dhona is mercifully short, so if nothing else she does not have to suffer this burden for long. She keeps it as far back on her chocobo as physically possible, but even still the fetid scent wafts towards her accursed sensitive nose—and digs its claws deeper in her curiosity in the process.
No. Gods above, no! Opening packages that aren't hers can get her fired, not to mention opening the Rotting Flesh Box is, by all accounts, a horrible idea.
But...
She turns to look at the ornate package.
What kind of person wraps up something that smells dead like that? Almost like a gift. The dissonance makes her head spin. There are flowers that smell like corpses, right...? But even then, why send those as a gift? There are better-smelling and probably looking flowers. Maybe they're someone's favorite?
...Who sends flowers to their friend?
The mystery eats at her. With each languid step of her chocobo, the urge to crack open the box and take a peek at its contents grows ever stronger as her sense-making inner voice grows quieter. She has to know. She simply has to know.
As she dismounts to prepare for the trek across the Coerthas Central Highlands, donning her fur-lined coat and wrapping her seasons-old scarf 'round her neck, she keeps peering at the box sitting pretty in its secure traveling crate.
Just a peek. Just a little peek.
Looking around to ensure not a soul can see her, N'teya buries her nose deep in her scarf and approaches. It hardly does a thing. Still, she persists—the box's latch is clean and opens easily, as if its sender wanted no obstacles to stand in the way of its proper delivery.
The hinges are smooth and silent as she pulls it upwards. She leans in close to peer inside, and...
The box is lined with a rich purple velvet, cushioning what seems to be a neatly folded letter, upon which is... something. Something that seems fragile and withered, and from which that stench is definitely emanating—N'teya once again has to swallow the compulsion to retch.
But what is it? She squints, looks closer—then stumbles quickly backwards when she realizes, retreating to a safety that does not exist.
It's a finger. One long, rotting finger, drained of blood and severed at the knuckle. Pale blue, skin taut, desperate to disintegrate and reveal dehydrated muscle, allow the flies and maggots to feast and swarm and gorge on the body, on the human body, on a living person that used to be alive and no longer is and now has their body parts dismembered and mailed like petty trinkets to all corners of Eorzea—
N'teya yanks her scarf down and vomits into the bushes. When she rights herself, she mounts her chocobo and rides it full tilt into Coerthas.
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for the prompts, 20 for corvo and martin?? as dark or as fluff as you please~~
okay, first of all, i’m seriously impressed that you sent this over a FULL YEAR after i reblogged those prompts. that’s dedication. i’m not bothered, i think it’s genuinely hilarious. ok i just needed to say that
20: “You came back.”
Corvo’s boots are slow and heavy on the wooden floor, each blood-soaked step seeming to reverberate throughout the whole structure. He knows exactly where he’s going. Who he’s looking for. Blood trails behind him like a warning, warding others away from his path. Of course, no one was around to see it.
Martin feels him before anything. With each passing moment, the dread in his stomach grows tighter, deeper– something is coming. And then he hears the steps, pulsing through the floorboards, each time making his dread throb more and more, until eventually he could barely stand it. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin could see Corvo’s figure appear at the end of the hall. He does not look up. The steps become a tick-tick-ticking clock counting down to his doom. Martin sits back in the worn chair. Corvo appears in the doorway.
His long hair sticks to his face, soaked from the rain, the mask hooked on his belt. He is expressionless. Martin looks up at him through his lashes. Both of them know what comes next.
“You came back,” Martin says. “Somehow I knew you would. We’d need a whole army to take you down, hm?”
Corvo flips his sword, takes one step closer. Martin hold his hand up in pause; “There’s no need for that, Corvo. We can settle this like men.” He picks up his gun.
"It’s a bit late for that, Martin.” Corvo’s tone is cold and undeniably harsh. “Missed your chance sometime after you handed me that glass.”
Martin shrugs. “I suppose. Neither of us have exactly been the most honorable of men. Both of us--,” he stands, “--have done things--,” puts his hand on Corvo’s arm, softly, but tense, “--that we regret.”
Corvo tilts his head, gaze fixed. He isn’t fazed. To Martin’s credit, neither is he.
There is a brief window of time in which it seems to both that neither of them will die. As if they are living in suspended animation, and time is frozen in this moment, and will be, forever. Like one of those moments that will change history, but only just; a small ripple in the ocean, felt only by the one who created it.
Martin thinks that maybe, had they met under different circumstances, they might have been friends.
But as it is, the closest Martin comes to Corvo is to his hand on the hilt of his sword, buried deep into Martin’s abdomen. The gun in Martin’s hand remains unfired, and he chokes, sputters, grins; and with the last of his strength aims it under his chin.
Our love is a forest fire and we are the little things that live in the trees. (Today is the most exciting day of our lives.)
At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve better. At my best, I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better.)
If loud, weird public sex is wrong, then being wrong is wicked hot. (right and wrong are just guidelines to hotter sex)
i don’t know what the fuck true love even is but i do want to hang out with you for basically the rest of my life. (let’s hang out - TO THE DEATH)
my five year plan is to maybe go out for ice cream this afternoon? (Live every day like the ice cream store is closing.)
I have loved since you. But when the new paint gets scratched, there you are underneath. (My heart is layers of scar.)
I know your weakness. It’s kisses. You are doomed. (Don’t worry. We’re all doomed eventually.)
Ah, unrequited love. When your best isn’t enough. (Participation medals of the heart.)
CAN’T STOP WON’T STOP NOT SURE HOW TO STOP (WHY STOP)
When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body. (right in there.)
hey, i’m liking your photos at 2am because i want to make out. i’m texting you at noon because i want to make out. i woke up today because i (we don’t need words)
It’s a full moon. I bought some rope and handcuffs to bring to bed tonight. (beware the moon.)
You aren’t really a good person, but god damn, you make bad look awesome. (no one could steer me right, but mama tried.)
I think I’ve got fireflies where my caution should be. (Instead of slowing down, I just shine brighter.)
No no, we aren’t breaking up! You didn’t let me finish. I’m gay for YOU. (And I’m queer for math!)
Roses are red, Violets are blue, You can do whatever you want to me. (please do.)
I do not believe in love at first sight. But god damn. (Look at you.)
I don’t know how to make things right. So I’ll just keep pretending that nothing’s wrong. (you know that I’m no good)
When I look at you all I can see are the mistakes we’re going to make. (The future’s so bright.)
If something seems too good to be true, quick! put it in your mouth! (before anything can go wrong!)
To thine own self be wicked sexy. (And then send pics.)
Today’s a perfect day for naked cuddling. I don’t even care what day it is. Every day is perfect. (I’m gonna spend it with you.)
We talk in the dark as we fall asleep, and we are objects in the night sky outside of time. (it is the exact opposite of alone.)
I joined Plenty of Fish to find out who stole my bike. A fun first date would be going to your house to see if you have my bike. (What a lovely home. Do you have a shed?)
This town isn’t big enough for the both of us. Let’s run away together! (Let’s join a street gang! Is NASA recruiting?)
I love you the way a knife loves a heart the way a bomb loves a crowd the way your mother warned you about, essentially. (the way a human loves another human)
Our love is like. Our love is only like. (I like you. I don’t LIKE like you.)
I miss doing nothing with you. (I miss not having to pretend to like your family.)
I hate it when you leave but I love to look at your butt while you walk away. (it gives me sexual arousal.)
In a dark, dark wood there was a dark, dark house and in that dark, dark house I think we should get drunk and fool around. (I want dirt under my fingernails.)
I love the way your face lights up when someone says, “It might be dangerous.” (I am glad we are friends.)
I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you. I can think up some clever lines, if you’d prefer. But I wanted to say that, first. (None of those lines seemed to be about you or me.)
I cannot help but notice we are sitting-in-a-tree. So, you know, maybe we could think of something to do… verb-wise. (I want us to gerund, essentially.)
When you’re around I don’t know how to hide my feelings. I count in binary, in my head. zero one one zero one one and you count clouds. (while you count clouds)
I hate trying to put my desire into words when my body knows exactly what to say. Come home. (You can’t start a fire without a spark.)
I love you but I don’t love you enough to give up falling in love. (anyway, happy anniversary!)
on the paper, she had written “you” and she told me “that’s a list of the people who are standing too close.” (I ain’t your pal.)
You are the love of my life so far. (Tomorrow’s just a day away.)
There should be a word for a threat that is also a promise. Because that is what I want you to hold me down and do. (I love you)
I laugh along but inside I know that it’s true: Being in love is totally punk rock. (quiet kisses are so hardcore)
I don’t believe each person has just one true love, but sometimes we don’t have enough time to find another. (That’s the way it crumbles. Cookie-wise.)
I would love you more if you were someone who could love me. (buy your love by playing make believe.)
Fun things to yell during sex: Anything. (he is risen.)
I am writing a book of love poetry for you. For example: “The only reason you could possibly need your music that loud is if you were planning to listen from my apartment. You downstairs motherfuckers.” (Every day I hope to see a moving truck pull in. Or an ambulance.)
when I picture you with your new lover I get angry, and then sad, then kinda horny. (I miss you)
We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me your heart doesn’t race for a hurricane or a burning building. I’d rather die terrified than live forever. (mistakes aren’t always regrets)
If they invented a way to actually have sex over the internet you and I could use that glorious technology for internet hugs. (You know, when I wasn’t using it for sex.)
Life would be way easier if I were easier. (Fact.)
I want to rob lumber mills and hospitals with you and just bewilder the hell out of people the way love should. (We will make everything wrong in the right way.)
I will always love you, or anyway I will always have loved you now. (And you will always be someone who was beautiful, once.)
And, at long last, after what seems like years, decades, eons, Corvo kisses the Outsider.
It is not full of passion and lust. It is slow, tight-lipped, a statement of fact more than of emotion. You're one of the most constant things in my life, says the kiss. Years and years of patience and watching and confidence and sorrow, says the kiss. Understanding and acceptance, says the kiss. You deserve this, I deserve this; says the kiss.
The Outsider, more than a little pleased at Corvo's sudden boldness, keeps his hands behind his back but parts his lips, ever so slightly, testing the waters. Corvo does nothing but press two fingers to his jaw. Ah, well, he thinks. Perhaps another time.
Mere seconds pass, but it feels so much longer, here in the Void. Corvo pulls away, straight-faced, looking straight into the Outsider's abyssal eyes. He is smiling.
"Corvo," says the Outsider. "You never fail to surprise."
Corvo tilts his head back, brows drawn, the corner of his mouth turning just so slightly upwards. "Good," he says, "I like to keep you on your toes."
it takes days for you to settle into yourself again, for your nerves to stop vibrating with every racing heartbeat ( your own or not-your-own ), for your breathing and thoughts to become in tandem again. for the panic to subside. you keep your guard up, up, always up, because that’s what you do is guard, but she’s here now. she’s here. emily is here, with you, and safe, or at least-- no. don’t finish that thought. she’s safe. she’s safe. she’s with you. she’s safe.
you know some of the others would argue otherwise. samuel does. you knew he would. you saw the way he looked at you on your way back from the cat, all leery and condescending. she sat on your lap, her small frame curled against your chest, protected by your arms and your sword and your heart ( both of them ). he stroked his lips like he wanted a smoke. he didn’t light one.
‘you know,’ he said, after too long a pause, too telling a silence. ‘you’re going to get your clothes dirty, huddled all close to him like that.’
emily peered up over your arm. she knew. her clothes were already dirty. stained with things that will wash. with things that will not. with grime and sweat and tears and bad memories. bad bad memories. and blood, your blood, blood you shed for her, blood you shed for Her. she did not seem to care when she saw you, when she clung to your chest, when you knew she wanted to cry but she couldn’t, couldn’t, because she will be empress soon and, She said, empresses must be strong leaders.
she did not care at the cat, and she did not care on the amaranth.
‘i know,’ she said, and pressed herself closer to you. you held her tighter.
samuel’s eyes were deadly. but not as deadly as you.
-
‘she’s too young for this,’ he says.
you look at him. you want to laugh, or sob, or scream, or all three, or maybe gut him for his trouble. you don’t. the anger that rises in your chest is slow and boiling and tendril-like, curling and weaving around your heart, Her heart, suffocating. you try to breathe. you try to breathe.
you rise from the bar seat and in one, two strides you’re inches away. he’s smaller, much smaller, but not intimidated. he doesn’t frighten easily. you almost wish he did.
‘you think.’ your words are sharp and precise, like your blade. you can only hope they cut as deeply. ‘she was too young to see her Mother die, too?’
‘you think she was too young to be trapped in a brothel for months, too?’
your breaths are so hot, so heavy, you could be sobbing. you might be. samuel is steel, and does not waver. it’s infuriating. your left hand twitches.
‘you think this is suddenly the breaking point?’
no regrets. no remorse. no turning back.
samuel doesn’t confront you directly again after that.
-
‘emily,’ you say, with all the tenderness you can muster. you have so little left in you. the past few months have left you raw and broken and tired, so tired. what little there is remaining in your marrow is reserved for emily. little emily. because she needs it. because of Her.
she’s sitting on the edge of your bed and you’re kneeling, eye-level, and you take her small hands in yours and they’re soft, but not as soft as before. it strikes you, then, hard and physical and right in your heart( s ), that you are not the only one who has changed.
‘you know,’ you start, and wet your lips. you squeeze her hands and look into her eyes; brown, like yours. her jaw strong, like yours. but her nose is Hers.
‘you know what i’m doing out there, right? you know that i’m--,’
you consider, for a brief moment, lying. you consider, for half a second, beating around the bush. hiding the truth. shielding her eyes from all the violence and pain and rot in the world. you consider wrapping your arms around her and protecting her from the storm, forever, from the void’s gaping maw, forever.
but she is stained with things that will not wash.
‘--killing people?’
slow and small, she nods. her gaze does not break.
you shift. the truth hurts. the truth cuts. the truth rips your heart right out of your body and does not even destroy it. the truth is not so kind.
‘i wanted you to know... that i can stop. that-- if you don’t want me killing people, i won’t. for you. okay?’
you don’t think you’ve spoken so softly since you sang her lullabies.
‘you need only ask.’
there is silence, but not the tense kind. not like with samuel. soft silence. thinking silence. her eyes shift to her lap and you move to sit next to her on the worn mattress. you wrap an arm around her frame and you close your eyes and breathe. breathe. this gentle silence. this sweet silence. this you can pretend, for just a moment, none of this is happening silence.
‘no.’
her voice is quiet but not unheard. you turn to face her.
‘i don’t-- i want, want you. to keep.’ she breathes, shaky, and you squeeze her shoulder but say nothing.
‘i don’t... want them. to. to hurt us. anymore.’ she swallows, and lifts her head with sudden pride, and determination, and resolve, an empress’ resolve, and you think: She would be so proud. so, so proud.
she looks at you, her jaw-- like yours-- set.
‘i want them to die.’
you hold her close, and she sleeps in your room that night. she never takes it back.
In which Martin and Cecelia have a history, told in lessons learned.
o. A lesson in lessons.
It's a timeless tale, really. A wise old owl takes a little fledgling under his wing and cares for her, fosters her, teaches her, until she sheds her downy feathers and grows into her wings and takes flight just as the wise old owl had taught her to. Just as he expected. Just as he wanted.
But has the teacher not yet succeeded until the pupil surpasses him? Is that not the goal of education, of teaching, of learning? Beyond goal. It is the cycle; a never-ending wheel of lessons that were heard better than they were told.
It’s happened before, and it will happened again. It is happening now; a penniless girl with no family and no way out crosses paths with a man who fought his way out tooth and nail and refuses to go back. Their fates intertwined, their destinies linger. It is not unlike the assassin and the street urchin. The bodyguard and the princess. Each scholar and his protegé, each man passing on the very knowledge that will eventually be used to best him.
This time, the story takes the form of a snake and a ghost. We will start, as most stories traditionally do, at the beginning.
