Writing is my passion and I love making other people happy and bringing prompts to life. Feel free to send me requests or prompts for fics you want me to write!
For writing purposes, I'd like to know your thoughts and headcanons on how it feels like to be in the Deadlands. Like, what does it feel like to be in a place with zero aether.
We've seen plenty of what too much aether does with aether floods. But we haven't spent a lot of time in places with none.
We've seen zones affected by the blight like the continent of Ash and the start of the game. The only place with zero aether we visited consisted of a corridor leading up to our first tower, north of Eastpool. Apart from the clear visuals, I don't recall Clive and Jill commenting on anything else.
Even in Cid's hideaway, what we are told is how it affects agriculture and drinking water, but nothing on how it affects people, not even from Tarja. In Clive's hideaway we had mentions for Obelos' boat and how the water was destroying the wood, but again, nothing about the people. They looked to be fine.
Either I missed a dialogue or it is assumed that there is no ill effect to living in the Deadlands, granted you have the means (and Mid's inventions).
I'm endlessly fascinated by the Deadlands and its effects on the environment. Based on how this lack of aether seems to literally draw life from the surroundings I can only assume that it's doing at least a bit of that to the people, right?
Say it starts with feeling dry, not unlike the desert heat of Dhalmekia. Except the temperature probably feels pleasant if not a little stale in the rocky canyons of the first Hideaway.
The skin is the largest organ of the body so it'd make sense that it'd be the first to experience the effects. Those already suffering from the Curse think it's just another side effect of their bodies slowly turning to stone. People turn to beeswax and oils to soothe extra dry parts bit it doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things, not when they've finally have freedom at their fingertips.
But then they notice some of the older Bearers have labored breathing or keep going to Tarja for migraines. She examines them and finds that these patients' lungs sound almost wet. Beginning stages of pneumonia? But how and from what?
And here's where you can start speculating with real world events. Oceans have these things called "dead zones" which are areas in which less oxygen is dissolved in the water. Most marine life either dies, or, if they are mobile such as fish, leave the area. Habitats that would normally be teeming with life become, essentially, biological deserts.
Sounds like the Deadlands, doesn't it?
Their water supply is from a natural reservoir or from a pond/river which means it's got low levels of legionella bacteria (one of the bacteria that can cause pneumonia). While this usually can't do any harm to humans, legionella can grow in side with the right conditions such as deposits that can support bacterial growth providing a source of nutrients for the organism eg rust, sludge, scale, organic matter and biofilms.
Organic matter has a hard time breaking up without oxygen. In addition, the Blight breaks material down (i.e. the boat) so whose to say that it wouldn't break down metal structures too.
I'll add more tomorrow but I'm falling asleep typing lol
my dream as a fanfic writer is to write a story which people want to talk to me about and send asks about afterwards and discuss things the characters did and the symbolism and meanings behind certain lines and I'll be all "hehe thanks" but irl I'll be in literal tears because I wrote something that means something to someone
I got an AO3 comment once which summarised said, 'I've been reading this fic for years and I keep coming back to it over and over because it's so amazing and I feel guilty that all this time I never commented, so this is me letting you know how much it's meant to me for so long.' And that was incredible, because five minutes before I didn't know that person existed and then they tell me that I've made such an impact on them.
It is never too late to leave a comment - the author will always be thrilled.
You know. Reading is important. Because I'm like always trying to make every line I write this groundbreaking mindfucking art but like. A book is 90% just saying what happened. "I hugged him around the waist." "The chair was brown and overstuffed." "I woke up alone." Etc etc. Like normal ass lines. I just keep comparing my boring, necessary to set a scene lines, with famous authors' absolute best lines and like.... every line doesn't have to shatter the earth. Sometimes someone just sits in a chair and the lines that wreck you come later, one at a time, here and there. It's alright.
This is super common and I wish we were taught when we begin to write that those quoted lines are also in a sea of the same sort of setup we obsess over not being 'good enough'. I saw multiple people drop out of writing courses over this in college. Sure, sometimes you need a better way to describe something prevalent or to pinpoint an emotion, but if EVERYTHING was written in that sort of tone for a whole book it would prove utterly exhausting to read.
So I took part in the @ignoctgiftexchange! My giftee is @cakelanguage; I hope you like this piece I did inspired by your prompts “Falling in love through mundane tasks” and “Noctis trying desperately to impress Ignis and Ignis finding it cute.” It even inspired me to write a little drabble to accompany this work, found here!
OH MY GOD LOOK AT HOW BEAUTIFUL AND SOFT THIS IS ♡♡♡♡ My heart is so full and I can't stop smiling. 🌈 Thank you so so so much for this beautiful art and the drabble!❤❤❤
Guess who finally wrote stuff that they’re posting? ME. I got to write a gift for @twistmyleg for the IgNoct 2023 Gift Exchange @ignoctgiftexchange. I hope you enjoy this fic!
You can also read it HERE
-
Battles against Nifleheim’s Magitek soldiers weren’t out of the ordinary at this point. Ignis had perhaps grown too used to the rumbling of the aircrafts overhead and the mechanical clanks of the soldier’s joints as they marched disjointedly alongside each other.
That didn’t make any of the encounters less harrowing than the last. But repetitive encounters did make one grow lax to certain features. The soldiers tended to attack in swarms and focused their attention on Noctis for the most part, using their numbers to try to box Noct in. Having Noctis be cut off from their protection had panic clutching at Ignis’ throat the first few times, but the soldiers weren’t particularly strong. Gladio could take out a soldier with a single swipe of his broadsword and Prompto had gotten quite adept at aiming his bullets at key joints in the armor to remove limbs with jubilance.
Ignis preferred infusing his daggers with magic or a polearm to create distance between him and his opponent. If a tiny bit of the reason he preferred the daggers more was that Noctis’ magic was warm under his hands—no matter what elemental he’d channel through the blades—no one had to know.
But as he’d mentioned, repetitive encounters didn’t mean they’d always be the same. There were still times they were caught unaware or the soldiers did something unpredictable. Which led them into the situation they were in now.
The air in Duscae was humid and heavy with the scent of incoming storms. They’d had a day of hunting, collecting money so they’d have enough to not only pay Cid for the repairs of the Royal Vessel but money for weapon upgrades and more healing supplies as they’d grown terribly low over the course of the week. With everything that had gone down in the Steyliff Grove ruins and Gladio’s self-discovery trip with Cor, they’d worn themselves down perhaps a bit too much.
While most of the group had been more than happy to accept some leisurely time spent at Cape Caeum with Iris and the gang, Gladio had been full of vigor to continue to power through. He seemed to have found a renewed passion for not only his duty but his belief in his own power. Gladio’s enthusiasm had only spurred Prompto into giving in to the older man’s desire, though Ignis had a feeling it was so Prompto could snap more pictures of Gladio’s new proclivity to forego wearing his shirt for extended periods of time. Noctis hadn’t had much of an opinion on the matter so that had been that.
With exhaustion tugging at his limbs and four contracts completed for the Hunter’s Guild, Ignis thought they were doing fine. Tired, but fine.
Until the aircraft showed up.
Dread hammered at him as the aircraft came to a standstill not twenty feet away from them. Gladio was the first to summon his sword. “Looks like we’ve got company,” he grunted.
Prompto let out a sound between a whine and a groan. “Can’t they leave us alone for a day?” Prompto asked, summoning his guns to his hands.
“The world would end before they did that, Prompto,” Noctis said.
Prompto whipped his head around with a glare. “Don’t give the world any ideas.”
Ignis couldn’t suppress the tiny smile that always came out when the group teased each other. “Duly noted, Prompto,” Ignis said. With a shatter of luminous crystals, the weight of his daggers settled in his hands. Despite the long day they’d already had, the familiar weight of the blades was just as comforting as always. “Shall we gentlemen?”
Noctis flashed him a confident smile, bright and boyish despite everything. “Bet I can defeat more than Gladio; what do you think, Specs?”
Ignoring Gladio’s vehement denial, Ignis made a considering hum. “Perhaps if Gladio decides to try and show off again, you can take out an extra soldier while he postures for one of his spins.”
“It’s an effective move!” Gladio argued over Prompto and Noctis’ laughter. Rolling his eyes, Gladio turned his eyes back to their enemy who was jerkily making their way over. “Whatever, you're on, Noct.”
Noctis’ engine blade gave a rumble as he too turned his attention to the soldiers. “Let’s do this.”
Watching Noctis toss his sword and warp towards the enemy in a shatter of crystals, Ignis dashed forward letting lightning crackle through his daggers. With a deft strike to the left, he struck the neck of one of the Magitek soldiers. The body jerked angrily, a feeble swing of its sword missing by over a foot before falling into a heap of metal.
Turning towards the sound of gunfire, he caught Prompto and Gladio coordinating a combo that involved Prompto using Gladio’s back as a springboard to come down on a soldier with his chainsaw weapon he was still mastering. The whoop of success from the two must’ve meant the two had nailed the combo they’d been trying to get down for a while.
He focused back on his next opponent and switched his daggers out for his polearm to sweep the three soldiers that had gotten too close to a more manageable distance away. He contemplated pulling out a flask of ice to halt the soldiers in place but knew it would do more harm to the team than good. Close-quarter fighting was not the time to use Noctis’ bottled elements. They’d all learned this the hard way on multiple hunts with burns and threatening hypothermia.
A yelp jerked his attention towards Noctis, who was surrounded on all sides. Ignis immediately clocked the stream of blood that flowed from the cut on his upper arm. He couldn’t tell if it was serious, but by the way Noctis was clenching his jaw, it was at the very least painful.
Ignis threw a dagger at a soldier that was getting distressingly close to Noctis’ back while the man in question was focusing his assault on the three soldiers in front of him. Ignis tried to follow the path of his dagger, pulling his polearm back out to vault himself into the air to come to Noct’s aid when he felt it.
Shooting pain radiated from his shoulder as he was impaled on the end of a soldier’s sword. Hot blood gushed from the puncture and instinctively Ignis grabbed at the blade that stuck out of him to try and prevent the sword from being pulled out. The bleeding would only increase if the metal was removed and he couldn’t risk that.
He’d been distracted, too caught up in making sure Noctis was defended even though he had two additional people he could rely on to watch Noctis’ back. It wasn’t even a lack of trust that caused him to react in such a way. Gladio was Noctis’ shield for Astrals' sake. No, it’s just that Ignis had a hard time stopping himself from constantly trying to be at Noctis’ side. To provide aid in any way he could.
An electrical current travels down the blade and through his shoulder in a dazzle of red bolts. He chokes on a scream, body jerking uncoordinated in its failed attempts to distance itself from the bolts frying the edges of the wound. It's an odd mix of detachment and all too aware agony that the current flows through him.
A gurgling moan reached his ears and vaguely realized it was coming from himself. Ignis could hear an uproar around him and maybe his name, but none of it was registering as more than nonsense in the wind. That wasn’t good, especially since they were all in the midst of battle. Ignis needed to get out of this situation. He needed to go help Noctis.
With an angry cry, Ignis shifted himself to the right in a quick motion, dislodging the sword from the soldier’s grip and somehow managing not to have the sword shift in his body. Probably because his collarbone and shoulder were doing an excellent job at halting the sword’s progress. Panting, he blindly backed away from the soldier who was quickly taken out by a swing of a glowing sword.
Ignis frantically tore his gaze toward the location he’d last seen Noctis only to be met with the sight of broken Magitek armor. The shattering of crystal breached his senses and he turned once more to the sky to see Noctis levitating off the ground, his arsenal floating around him in a defensive circle.
Spectral swords of old reigned terror on their foe, but Ignis had eyes only for his prince. Furious and terrifyingly beautiful—no, this wasn’t just his prince, his king, this was Noct. His precious Noctis. The boy who used to walk hand-in-hand with him in the royal gardens donned with flower crowns. The boy he tucked close to his side up in the highest tower, blankets around their shoulders as they stared up at the constellations they could make out amongst the light pollution from the city. The young man who tried to live up to everyone’s expectations no matter how monumental a task that might be.
Despite Ignis’ fading vision, he couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from Noctis’ rampage. Even when he felt hands grasping at his shoulder to try and maneuver him into a better position to supposedly try and treat his wound, his focus was on Noctis.
“Iggy, you’ve gotta lay down,” Prompto said, his voice cutting through the fog.
Ignis wanted to protest, to urge Prompto’s attention back to the battle, but all he managed to croak out was, “Noct?”
Prompto let out a nervous, high-pitch laugh, the kind he let out when he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle the situation and he needed to break the tension. “Noct’s got it under control.” Prompto prodded delicately around the sword still lodged through him and Ignis hissed at the fresh wave of pain that cut through the numbness that was threatening his consciousness. “Shit, okay sorry, Iggy. We’ve gotta get this thing out of you.”
Ignis lazily shook his head. “The bleeding.”
“No, I know you’re bleeding, that’s why we need to heal you.”
He wasn’t positive but he knew their stock of potions was running low and he was determined to make sure Noct was looked at first. “Save them for Noct,” Ignis grits out.
There was a thud beside him and a meaty hand joined Prompto’s in inspecting his wound. “Yeah, Iggy, don’t even start with that crap,” Gladio said. “Noctis will throw a fit if he hears you say that.” Perhaps, but Ignis could be stubborn about this until he knew the extent of Noctis’ injuries. “Can’t believe I have to do this… Noct, get over here!”
He squinted at the blast of crystalline magic that Noctis’ practically erupted out of in his mad dash to reach him. It was almost laughable, the way his limbs almost got tangled up in each other as he collapsed in a messy kneel on his good side. Maybe he was a bit worse off than he originally thought.
“Hey, Iggy,” Noctis said. Noctis’ voice was always so soft when he said Ignis’ name. A hand cupped his cheek and Ignis leaned into Noctis’ hand because it had to be his. He recognized the callouses against his skin, the little scab on Noctis’ thumb from a mishap with one of his lures that he figured would heal on its own. “You seem a bit pinned down.”
Ignis let out a weak, amused snort. “Didn’t quite make the cut I suppose.” Not his best work as far as puns go, but he blamed the blood loss.
Noctis’ chuckle was music to his ears. “That was terrible, Specs.”
“You still laughed.”
“It was a pity laugh.”
Ignis gave a noncommittal hum. “Maybe so, but a laugh is a laugh.”
“Can we heal Ignis now, or are you two going to continue flirting?” Gladio asked. “Because you’re seriously losing too much blood.”
Ignis probably would’ve had an intelligent retort about Gladio and Prompto’s own flirting attempts if he didn’t lose consciousness before he could respond.
He comes to with a familiar grogginess clinging to his mind. It should alarm him that he's used to waking up like this, the dredges of a potion still faint in his mouth. But Noctis has taken to experimenting with the different drinks he uses to make his healing concoctions and always tries to give Ignis the Ebony-flavored ones.
The weight of a hand curled tightly around him pulls his attention toward his companion. Noctis is hunched over beside him, his head periodically dropping as he fights sleep. Ignis knows that Noctis will be regretting that posture later when his scar tissue flairs in angry stabs along his back. He wants to reach out and correct it or at the very least pull him down so that Noctis is laying beside him. He just can't get his arm to cooperate.
Settling to verbally get Noctis' attention, he quietly cleared his throat. "Noct," he said, voice rough with sleep. Ignis can't quite hold back the snort of laughter he lets out at the disgruntled jerk Noctis makes at the noise. "You should lay down."
"Ignis," Noctis breathes, a smile wrinkling his eyes in the beautiful way Ignis wants life to document Noct's joy. "You had us worried."
The battle is fresh in his mind, the pounding of boots as Magitek soldiers swarmed them. He remembers the flash of steel before it'd skewered him through the shoulder. The Lichtenberg of electricity that'd raced down his arm and fanned out from his fingertips. The spasming of his limbs as the power took its toll on him.
But mostly he remembers Noct. He remembers the fury in Noctis’ actions and the gentleness he returned to Ignis’ side with. He vaguely remembers sharing a few words together, a contentedness warring with the state of his body at the time, and then nothing.
He wets his lips and tilts his head to examine Noctis closer. “Are you alright?” Ignis asked.
Noctis rolled his eyes with a huff and flopped over beside him like a child. “Of course, that’s the first thing you ask,” Noctis said, but he didn’t sound upset, more disgruntled than anything. “I’m perfectly fine, you’re the one who was really injured.”
“Good thing I had you to come to my rescue.” The soft teasing at his own expense is a small price to pay for Noctis’ annoyance shifting to a familiar smirk.
“I’d always come to your rescue, Iggy.” The smirk shifts to a quiet, honest smile. “Always.” He still looked concerned as he ran his free hand down the new scars on Ignis’ arm. “Would you let me use another potion?”
Noctis knows that he’s plenty capable of doing what he wants, but the fact that he still asks Ignis these things reminds Ignis of how much his lover cares about Ignis’ opinion. He may not always listen, but he asks.
The numbness in his arm is still strong, but the Lichtenberg pattern that had crept towards his hand has faded some since it first marred his flesh. Likely a hi-potion will take care of any lingering effects but Ignis is hesitant to use a resource that they're running low on when he can allow the wound to heal after a night's rest. "I'll be right as rain tomorrow," Ignis reassured.
Noctis sent him a skeptical look, his other hand not currently holding Ignis' reached up to cup Ignis' face. "Promise me that if it still hurts in the morning you'll use another potion," Noctis said.
Any reluctance he had about using a potion wilted under Noct's pleading face. “If it will assuage any fears you might have about my well-being, I promise.”
The victorious grin he received made his heart flutter violently in his chest. He tugged Noctis’ hand closer to him until Noctis picked up on his desire and shuffled closer until he could plaster himself to Ignis’ side. He carefully laid his head against Ignis’ chest and let out a content sigh. “Wake me if you need me?”
“I always need you.”
A muffled whine was buried against his chest. “Sap,” Noctis whispered like it was a secret how much they cared about each other.
Ignis only pressed a kiss as well as he could against Noctis’ head.
some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.
Based on both decent and not so decent replies, I have made some changes to my original post below.
It would seem a whole new kind of AO3 reader/writer is emerging and it is becoming clear not everyone quite understands how the website community works. Here is some basic guidance on how most people expect you to go about using AO3 to keep this a fun community archive that funtions correctly:
Kudos is for when the story was interesting enough to make you finish reading. If it sucked or was badly written, you probably left. If you finished it, you liked it - so kudos.
If you really liked it, you should comment. It can be long and detailed or a literal keysmash. Writers don't care, we just love comments.
No critisism unless the author has specifically asked or agreed to hear it. Even constructive critisism is a no-no unless an author note tells you it's okay. No, posting it online is not an open invitation for that. Many people write as a fun hobby or a way to cope with, among other things, insecurity and just want to share. Don't ruin that for them.
Do not comment to ask the author to write/update something else. It's tacky and off-putting and will probably have the opposite effect than the one you want.
There is no algorithm, it's an archive. Use the search and filter function to add/remove the pairings/characters/tropes etc. you want to read about and it will find you the fics that fit the bill.
For this to work, writers must tag and rate stories. This avoids readers finding the wrong things and missing the stuff they want. I don't care how cringy that trope is in your eyes - it gets tagged.
Character A/Character B means a ROMANTIC or SEXUAL relationship of some kind. Character A&Character B is PLANTONIC, like friendship or family.
Nothing is banned. This is an implicit rule because banning one thing is a slipperly slope to banning another and another, until nothing is allowed anymore. Do not expect anyone to censor for you. Because of the tags system, you are responsible for your own reading experience.
People can create new chapters and sequels/fic series any time after they "complete" a story. So it's considered perfectly normal to subscribe, even to a finished story. You can even subscribe to the author instead just to cover your bases.
Do not repost stories or change the publishing date without an extremely good reason (like a complete top to bottom rewrite). It's an archive, not social media. No one cares what's the most recent, only what fits their tag needs.
Try to avoid deleting a story you wrote if you hate it - make it anonymous or orphan it so others can still enjoy it, without it being connected to your name anymore.
It's come to my attention that metaworks ARE allowed on AO3, which is something I wasn't aware of. So if you do post an essay or theory, please tag it as such so others can choose to search for it or exclude it.
The only reason this archive works is because NON ONE PROFITS. Do not link to your ko-fi or patreon or mention monetary gain in any way or you violate the terms and risk having your account removed.
I KNOW there's plenty more I missed but I'm trying to cover most of the basics that people seem to be struggling with.
I invite anyone to add to this, but please explain, don't berate.
Here are a handful of quick tips to help you write believable characters!
1. A character’s arc doesn’t need to grow linearly. Your protagonist doesn’t have to go from being weak to strong, shy to confident, or novice to professional in one straight line. It’s more realistic if they mess up their progress on the way and even decline a bit before reaching their goal.
2. Their past affects their present. Make their backstory matter by having their past events shape them into who they are. Growing up with strict parents might lead to a sneaky character, and a bad car accident might leave them fearful of driving.
3. Give reoccurring side characters something that makes them easily recognizable. This could be a scar, a unique hairstyle, an accent, or a location they’re always found at, etc.
4. Make sure their dialogue matches their personality. To make your characters more believable in conversation, give them speech patterns. Does the shy character mumble too low for anyone to ever hear, does the nervous one pace around and make everyone else on edge?
5. Make your characters unpredictable. Real people do unexpected things all the time, and this can make life more exciting. The strict, straight-A student who decides to drink at a party. The pristine princess who likes to visit the muddy farm animals. When character’s decide to do things spontaneously or in the heat of the moment, it can create amazing twists and turns.
6. Give even your minor character’s a motive. This isn’t to say that all your characters need deep, intricate motives. However, every character should need or want something, and their actions should reflect that. What’s the motive behind a side character who follows your protagonist on their adventure? Perhaps they’ve always had dreams of leaving their small village or they want to protect your protagonist because of secret feelings.
I had the privilege to write two pieces for the Equivalent Exchange Anthology ( @equivalentexchangeanthology) and I'm delighted to be sharing the 1st of them. I wanted this piece to process the emotions Ed might've been going through at the end/post-losing his alchemy. I hope you enjoy this!
You can also read this on AO3
----
No matter where or how far Ed and Al had traveled, Resembool had always been their home. The rolling green hills and smog-free air carried scents of wheat and earth and everything that Ed had ever associated with comfort.
Resembool was home, and burning down their house hadn’t done anything to change that. All it had done was make the hill a lonely place for all these years, where soot and the burnt-out skeleton were the only things that had survived.
Looking back on it, maybe his father had been right. Maybe setting fire to the house hadn’t been a sign of their determination and resolve to fix themselves. Maybe Ed just hadn’t wanted to remember what they’d done, and burning it had been his and Al’s attempt at wiping a slate clean and starting again with nothing.
Ed had turned those thoughts over while Al was recovering. When Al started his rigorous physical therapy with Winry and Pinako, Ed decided to rebuild their childhood home.
Gathering the supplies was relatively easy: Ed still had plenty of money from being a State Alchemist, and now that Mustang had helped to get his account unfrozen, he could access all his funds. He snagged a large toolbox and a couple of books on architecture that looked promising and hefted his bundle onto the counter, smiling at the older man manning the register. “Good to see you, Silas,” Ed said, shuffling through his pockets to find his checkbook. “You doing well?”
Silas grinned and looked over the rim of his glasses. “Well, looky there—Edward Elric, all grown up,” he said. “I’ve been fine; wife’s got me working the counter most of these days. Can’t be much of a handyman anymore, but I still craft on occasion. And yourself?”
Truthfully, Ed had a lot of mixed feelings about how he was doing. Some days, he’d roll over in bed and look over at Al—who’d be out cold, snoring softly—and know he’d do it all again without hesitation. But there were times when he was alone, when he’d read his alchemy notes and clap his hands, wishing desperately for even a spark of energy.
Today was a good day, though. “I’m good, Al’s started another round of physical therapy with Winry and Pinako. Figured I’d been hovering over him enough recently, so I decided to do something.”
Humming softly, Silas nodded at the counter. “Got something to do with these?”
“Yeah, it’s a… big project.”
“What’re ya building?”
“Rebuilding, actually.” Ed scratched his cheek and gave Silas an awkward smile. “Our old house, up on the hill.”
Silas blinked owlishly at Ed before letting out a chuckle. “That’s quite the undertaking. You sure you’re up for it?”
It wasn’t a matter of being up for it—not with Ed. This was something he had to do. He needed to properly close that chapter of his life, not just remove it from the equation entirely. Ed doubted anyone was going to get it.
Maybe Al would get it. But Al would probably see it as Ed setting roots down in Resembool again—that he planned to stay. Staying wasn't in the cards. Not right now.
Ed wrote a check for his supplies and walked back up the hill.
The book on architecture barely left his hands once he returned to the Rockbells’. It was dense, with lots of mathematical equations peppered through common schematics that houses tended to follow.
Granny Pinako stared at Ed over her pipe and blew out a pointed breath of smoke. "You're rebuilding it, then," she said.
Nodding his head, he turned back to his drafting paper, where he’d sketched out his fourth design. He’d tried to remember what the original had looked like, but each time, the sizes of the rooms were all off because he’d been so much younger before, and everything had seemed giant.
Granny Pinako tapped her pipe on the edge of the table. “You know, the original foundation can probably still be used.”
That had honestly never occurred to Ed. He’d assumed that the fire had destroyed everything. “But the fire—”
“That blaze you started took pretty much everything.” Pinako took a seat in the lone chair on the porch. “But concrete is surprisingly durable.”
Ed’s hand gripped the pencil tighter, his shoulders hunching. “…so the basement survived,” he mumbled.
The one room in their house that Ed wanted more than anything to disappear amongst the ash might be just fine.
“Hold your horses, Ed,” Pinako scolded, taking another drag off her pipe. “The heat definitely damaged the concrete, and that’s not even factoring in what kind of ash damage you have from the other floors collapsing.”
Something loosened in his chest at that. “So it’ll need to be replaced.”
“Some of it, but it’ll save you some time if you don’t have to demolish the rest before you start the infrastructure." The smirk on her face was practically criminal. “Though you’ve always been great at breaking things.”
“I fix them afterward.” It was a weak argument, but this banter that he’d always shared with Pinako hadn’t changed with the loss of his alchemy. It hadn’t changed when he had lost his limbs either. Ed had always flourished under tough love and scary women.
She raised an eyebrow at him and gestured towards the front door. “Well, you’d better get on that. Maybe ring that Armstrong fellow—his specialty is stone, right?”
Ed squirmed under her stare. He hadn't contacted anybody since he’d left for Resembool with Al. He’d been avoiding the payphone at the station and the landline in the front hallway of the Rockbells’. He didn’t know why he hadn’t let any of them know that he and Al had arrived safely.
Maybe it was time to look back enough to pull the ones he cared about to the bright future ahead.
General Armstrong arrived shirtless and glittering two days later. Ed had thought he was prepared to see the giant man, but he fought the urge to run away as Armstrong came at him with open arms.
“Edward Elric!” Armstrong cried, nearly crushing Ed’s spine under the guise of a hug. “It’s been too long.”
“It’s been barely a month,” Ed choked, wiggling out of Armstrong’s hold.
“Like I said, much too long.” Armstrong dabbed at his wet eyes. “When I got your call I can’t describe how happy I was to hear your voice. How has Alphonse been? He had only just gotten stable walking the last I saw him.”
Ed eyed the single suitcase Armstrong had beside him and hefted the thing up as the two started making their way to the Rockbells’. “He can take all the walks he wants now, just needs frequent breaks until he can travel long distances.” Ed laughed as he thought about Al’s continued recovery. “He eats like a horse now; it’s almost like he’s still hollow, with how he can pack it away.” He counted his blessings that Al had better manners than he did.
“He’s a growing boy! He needs all the food he can get to bring his body back into tiptop shape.”
A silence stretched between them as Ed waited for Armstrong to keep up the conversation. When nothing came, Ed cleared his throat and looked up at the giant man. “Thank you for being willing to help me with this,” Ed said. He kicked at a pebble and watched as it skipped along the road before landing in the grass. “I know it’s not what you were hoping for when I called.”
“Nonsense,” Armstrong said, clapping Ed on the back with enough force to crack a steel plate. “It’s always a pleasure to help friends, and I’ve grown very fond of you two.” His eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile. “I’m exactly where I want to be, on my way to help you rebuild your home.”
Armstrong’s eyes looked misty by the end of his tiny confession, and Ed couldn’t deal with that kind of reaction. “I hope apple pie is okay for dessert. Al keeps hounding Winry for another.”
Armstrong’s eyes were soft as he heartily agreed.
Ed ended up needing to call Teacher and Sig next. The support beams for the house were too heavy for him to lift once Armstrong had returned to Central. It was logical to contact them, anyway—they’d want to see how Al was doing since his release from the hospital to continue his recovery at home.
Teacher’s greeting was surprisingly tame compared to the last couple of times he’d seen her. A nagging part of Ed’s brain kept telling him that it was because he’d been keeping in contact with her and hadn’t done anything stupid lately.
Teacher tossed her bag into his waiting arms with a gleaming smile. “So let’s see this house you’re building,” she insisted, already walking away from the station.
Ed gaped at her retreating form, turning to Sig, who looked like this was a completely normal reaction as he followed after her. With a heavy sigh, Ed caught up to them. “It’s not much yet,” Ed admitted. “It’s mostly a shell right now, but Armstrong helped get the basement fixed up.”
His teacher paused for a moment and turned her attention back to him.
Ed felt a scowl settling on his face. “What’s that look for?”
“You used to have such a hard time asking for any kind of help,” Teacher said softly. Her eyes were bright, and the goofy grin she gave him made him think of his mother when he and Al had done something that she thought was cute. “I guess I’m just happy you’ve learned that you can reach out to the people you know.”
Ed rolled his eyes and stubbornly avoided her gaze. “Yeah, well—I’m taking you to Winry’s before I take you to the house. Al’s gonna be excited to see you both.”
He wasn’t going to think about what Teacher said, but his heart felt light when Sig patted him on the head.
From there, it seemed like every chance he had, he was reaching out to people for help. Winry had insisted on doing the electrical work—and had threatened to beat him with her wrench if he even thought of trying to do it himself, which was honestly a relief, because he hadn’t thought about wiring the house.
And then, somehow, everyone seemed to find out that he was rebuilding his childhood home. His money was on Armstrong proclaiming it Wonderful! or some shit to Mustang and the team, because Ed started getting phone calls in the evening asking him how the project was going. Hawkeye had been the most diligent of his callers and tried to call him every other day.
It was during one of these phone calls that something seemed to click in Ed’s brain.
“The walls are all up, finally,” Ed said into the receiver, absentmindedly twirling the ice in his water glass. “Nothing fancy, but sheetrock is a bitch to install.”
“I can imagine,” Riza said, amusement heavy in her voice.
“But it’s another thing done. Soon I’ll be able to paint the damn thing, but I’ve still got to put in the flooring.” He groaned, tipping his head back. “It feels like the more I do, the more things I find out I’ve still got to do.”
“Well, we’re all happy to offer a hand if you want help.”
“Even Mustang?”
Riza snorted quietly. “An excuse for Mustang to get out of paperwork? He couldn’t be happier.”
Ed didn’t fight the wicked smile that spread across his face. “I’ll make him wish he was doing paperwork.”
“That’s all I ask.” The line was quiet before Riza continued, her tone soft like it always got near the end of their calls. “How are you doing, Ed?”
“I’m…” He paused and considered his answer. From the moment that he’d sacrificed his alchemy to the Truth in exchange for Al’s body and soul, he’d been insisting he was fine—that everything was okay because Al was back. Ed had succeeded in what he’d sworn to do.
And he had been fine. He’d never been the type of person to let something keep him down, always striving forward to the next thing. He’d approached the physical therapy for his arm with a tenacity that had startled the doctors at the hospital. He’d done everything he could to help with Al’s recovery so that they could come home.
But looking back, he’d also been shoving aside his feelings on losing a huge part of his identity. He didn’t talk about it. He dodged any form of comfort about his loss. And in doing all of that, he’d also been pushing away the people who were most tied to his alchemy.
Like Teacher. Like Armstrong. Like Hawkeye, and the team, and Colonel Bastard himself.
Because maybe there had been a small part of Ed that had been ashamed. Not that he’d given up his alchemy for Al—he would have torn down the world for his brother and sacrificed all of himself, if that was what it had taken to get Al back. But ashamed that he hadn’t known what to do with himself now that he couldn’t offer his alchemy.
So he’d started rebuilding his childhood home. It was like putting himself back together, in a way—coming to terms with the things that would be different, and learning that the changes were okay. That just because he’d lost his alchemy didn’t mean he had to turn away from that part of his life, or turn away from the people who cared about him and genuinely liked helping him.
The people that loved him. If that wasn’t a startling thought, Ed didn’t know what was.
The soft call of his name from the phone drew him away from his musings and back to Riza, who was patiently waiting for his answer.
“I think,” Ed started, “that I’m doing really well, actually.”
For the first time in a while, Ed meant it from the bottom of his heart.
He could practically hear the smile in Riza’s voice. “That’s good to hear,” Riza said. “Well, I’ll let you go. You’ve got some hard work to do tomorrow.”
“Al’ll probably start working on that garden he’s been wanting to try growing, like Mom used to have, so I’ll have company at least.” Ed twiddled the phone cord. “I hope to see you all soon.”
“You couldn’t keep us away.”
The chapter of his life as the Fullmetal Alchemist may have ended, but he didn’t need to burn any bridges to move forward. Besides, this next chapter was looking brighter than he’d ever hoped.
Alec and Magnus Lightwood-Bane were the soulmate pair. They hadn’t even known they were matches when they met, warlock and shadowhunter being such a rare pairing that no one had known how it manifested well enough to realize. By the time they’d figured it out, Alec’s mark blooming gloriously along his spine, curving possessively over his collar and ribs, down his arms, they’d been madly in love.
His Bapak always said he thought maybe they loved each other hard enough that fate had bent to them instead of the other way around.
Life with them wasn’t always easy, but it was always full of love, for each other and for their children. They made the best of the rough times and they worked hard to always come home to each other, to hold their sons close and to revel in the simple warmth of them.
Rafael supposed that was why it was such a shock when his Dad just… didn’t. His Bapak was pacing their living room, clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t worried even as he glanced repeatedly at their front door.
I'm volunteering for a literary journal right now and there's two things I think you all should know.
1. Most people that submit to literary journals are cis white men. We know this because our journal has an anonymous survey about demographics for people that submit.
2. Most things that get submitted to the creative non fiction section are on the level of middle school "What I did over the summer" essays.
I cannot see the demographics of the people whose essays I'm reading, but guys, if you are wondering if you should submit your work to a literary journal or not, I promise you that just in terms of statistics there are a lot of mediocre cis white men and people in general confidently submitting weird crap that isn't literature to literature magazines. Do it. Submit your work. Please. If you want there to be more diversity in literature, be the diversity. Do it. Do it do it do it.
We have to be careful how we move, or more awesome fics fall out of our sleeves! We’ve got two treats for you from @cakelanguage – one each in Projects 1 and 2!
Make sure to pre-order at the Anthology shop by October 3 to get your hands on them! 👀
This took much longer than I thought it would, but work has been absolutely exhausting lately. I'm honestly just excited that I get to share this with you all because I really wanted to participate in Hurt!Noct Week.
This is a combination of day 1 prompts: buried alive and captured by Nifleheim (at least sort of?). This is just the 1st chapter, but I figured I’d share at least this bit for now. I hope you enjoy this!
You can also read this on AO3
-
He should’ve called Ignis. Or texted Gladio that he was going to be ten minutes late to their training session. Or Astrals, accepted Prompto’s offer to walk home with him even though his house was in the opposite direction.
But he hadn’t.
Instead, he’d strolled down the bustling streets, thinking about the planned King’s Knight session later that night. He scrolled idly through the mission details, trying to formulate a plan of attack. The last time Noctis had attempted this mission he’d been severely outclassed and had to abandon the mission lest he lose what little loot he’d been able to pilfer from the dungeon. With Gladio’s character acting as their tank, he could have Ignis on range attacks and healing. Prompto had the best stealth stats so they could have Prompto looting the place while the rest of them took care of the bigger monsters. Noctis fancied himself an all-around player so he could assist wherever needed the most help.
Caught up in his mini strategy session, he didn’t realize he was on a collision course with someone until he ran right into them. He stumbled, juggling his phone between his hands in an attempt to save it from meeting its demise on the pavement below.
“Watch where you’re going,” the man he ran into grumbled, brushing imaginary dirt off his jacket.
The man was dressed lavishly in a wide variety of patterns and textures. His coat looked sturdy and thick like it would keep out even the harshest of cold winds. The scarf around his neck was the brightest piece of clothing he wore—the reddish-orange silk oddly complementing the man's red-violet hair. Not a sliver of the man’s skin was visible besides the tip of the man’s fingers and his face under the shade of his fedora.
He had a right to be upset even if half of him wanted to insist that the man could have moved too. He shoved that thought down and instead nodded his head, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry about that,” Noctis apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”
“Yes, I figured as much.” The man squinted at him, his head cocking to the side. “Hold on a moment, don’t I know you?”
Not for the first time, he was thankful for his privacy. His father had done a remarkable job at keeping him much out of the public eye. People knew who he was, but because he wasn’t in any of the newspapers or rag magazines that most celebrities appeared in he could go through life like normal. He didn’t have to think about paparazzi waiting outside his school or people approaching him asking for something or other.
“Probably not,” Noctis said, “maybe you’ve seen me walking home before? I go to the high school three blocks away.”
Shaking his head, the man inspected his face more thoroughly. “No that’s not it. I’ve definitely seen you before.” He felt as if the man could count his pores, and Noctis shuffled backward away from the man’s heavy stare. “Have you got an uncle that works at the palace? I used to work there.”
The man gave Noctis a private quirk of his lips like he was privy to some hidden joke that only he knew.
“Oh that’s… nice?”
The man nodded absentmindedly gaze still heavy on Noctis. “Hm, you really do look familiar,” he commented. “Quite handsome too.”
“Thanks?” Noctis looked down at his uniform and his loosened tie and wondered if there was a polite way to excuse himself from the conversation. He didn’t want to be rude by walking away from the man but he really did need to get going or he was going to be later than he thought to Gladio’s training session. “Well, I’m sorry for walking into you like that, but I gotta get going.”
“Right, right, of course.” The man swept a hand through his hair sheepishly. “It’s not like I can keep the prince from his important tasks just to talk with me.”
Ice filled Noctis’ veins as his title was casually thrown out by the man who claimed he couldn’t place his face. He stared at the man, uncomprehendingly. This was starting to look like the beginning of one of Ignis’ crime drama shows. Why did the man lie? What was his angle? What was going on?
“Who are you?” Noctis asked, channeling his calm façade to the max.
“A man of no consequence, I assure you.” The man waved him off with a few shooing gestures. “Off you go, your highness.”
Noctis gave him a wary look and an awkward bob of his head. He needed to get out of here. Ready to put this whole interaction behind him, he stepped to the side of the man to continue his route. Except he didn’t get very far before a hand latched onto his wrist with surprising force.
A violent tug had him wrenching himself back around, his shoulder twinging at the sudden jerk. Face-to-face with the man once more, Noctis saw how the man’s expression was colder, harsh in the afternoon sun. His teeth were bared in a sneer—looking for all the world like a coeurl.
“Let go,” Noctis ordered, now glaring at the man who wouldn’t leave him alone. “Didn’t you just tell me to go?”
A taunting smile peaked through the man’s sneer. “Now why would I do that?” He asked.
Noctis clenched his fists and bit out another order. “Let go of me, now.” He grabbed his phone with his free hand and quickly dialed the palace’s emergency numbers. It would be mildly embarrassing if Gladio found out he’d called the Crownsguard on a regular citizen, but his SAS kidnap training was blaring in his ears. “I’m warning you, I can have you arrested.”
A soft tsk came from the man who shook his head at Noctis’ threat. “We can’t have that now, can we?”
He opened his mouth to demand his release again, but all that came out was a choked-off yelp as something heavy struck his head. His knees refused to hold up his body and he collapsed to the concrete. The skin of his palms was torn in his attempt to catch himself, but he couldn’t feel it; the sharp pain by his temple shadowed the pain in his palms.
He turned his gaze back to the blurry figure of the man, who had been joined by another figure. His brain felt sluggish, his thoughts thick in his mouth as he tried to string a sentence together. “W-what—“
“Shh,” The man shushed, ignoring Noctis’ flinch as he tenderly ran a hand through Noctis’ hair. “Good night, sweet prince.”
The last thing he saw was a fist coming at his face.
Then nothing.
He regained consciousness with a choked-off groan. He felt like he’d gone through one of Gladio’s marathon training sessions and lost miserably.
Laying still, he took stock of his body. His lip was swollen and tender as he wet his dry, split lips. The right side of his face throbbed in-tune with his heartbeat and Noctis could barely get that eye to open more than a crack. What was he supposed to do? He’d been trained on how to handle a kidnapping situation; Cor had made it abundantly clear the variations in which people would try to snatch him up. But this wasn’t just a ‘what if.’ He’d been kidnapped not even four blocks away from his school.
It was a matter of figuring out what he could do to get out of here. He still had his magic though admittedly his connection to the Crystal felt like he was trying to pull at the energy through a strainer. Like sifting through a pile of hay for the needle—all of his abilities being the needle and the presence of his magic being the hay.
But that didn’t mean he was helpless. He just needed to approach the situation the right way and he could escape. He tried to remain calm, limiting his breathing to shallow breaths to keep up his ruse. This became a fruitless act when he heard someone or something step up behind him.
A familiar voice came from behind him. “It appears our guest of honor is awake,” the man cooed. Some of the man’s nonchalance had vanished, replaced by cruel giddiness. “And how are you, your majesty?”
Like hell he was going to go along with this guy’s fake care. His pride wouldn’t let him bite out a pleasantry, instead choosing to press his steely gaze on the eccentric man. His stare didn’t deter the man’s delight in his situation which only served to make his blood simmer in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to punch the smug look off that face.
“I think you’ll find, Noctis,” the man loomed over him, nudging him lightly in the ribs with his boots, “that I have the upper hand.”
He didn’t. Noctis refused to believe it. He may not have had any weapons on him, but Noctis had dialed the emergency response number for the palace. By dialing the number he had ensured back-up would be on their way to his location in less than five minutes. Well, the location of where the call took place. He couldn’t feel the shape of his phone in his pockets, but the Crownsguard would be able to pick up on any trail his kidnapper had left behind.
All he needed to do was wait.
“What do you want?” Noctis asked, shifting his position on the floor to try and alleviate the pressure on his lower back. He could already feel the scar tissue there begin to burn and ache.
“Already wanting me to reveal my dastardly plan?” The man questioned. “How cliché.” Noctis’ face must’ve given away his annoyance because the guy clucked his tongue at his expression.
“I realize this isn’t one of your silver-spoon soirees, but it’ll serve as a good setting for the video.” He straightened and made his way over to the small set-up of… camera equipment? “We need you to put on your best performance, your highness.” He looked up with a cold smile that sent a shiver running down Noctis’ spine. “Though do save some for the main event.”
“So you’re gonna, what? Ransom me or something?” Noctis squirmed in his binds. “Is that your plan?”
Humming noncommittally, the man continued setting up his equipment. “Or something.”
“Not much of a talker huh?” He was banking on being able to get some info out of the guy so he could shout it over what was sure to be his ransom video.
The waiting was bizarre. Despite the discomfort, he didn’t feel like he was all there—though the main contributor to this was the head injury—the quiet sounds of rustling cables and footsteps gave him peace of mind amongst the simmering unrest and anxiety as the experience faded into less immediate danger. If only he could concentrate on his armiger and summon the knife he stored there—then he’d be able to warp out of his binds and escape.
A quiet huff of laughter broke through the silence; it took him a few moments to realize the laugh came from him . It wasn’t funny, not by a long-shot. He was being stupidly optimistic, especially since his vision still wavered between doubled and covered in black splotches. He probably had one hell of a shiner too.
He wished he’d called someone to get him.
The derelict state of his mind was brushed away as a triumphant cry echoed slightly around him. He squinted at the man who looked at him expectantly.
“What?” Noctis asked, tiredly. He had no desire to give the man the reactions he was hoping for. Actually, the other being put off by his apathy made him feel better. “Did you finally get your whole… set-up ready?”
The man had the audacity to pout at him. “Now you’re just no fun,” he complained. “Aren’t you curious as to why I’ve brought you here?”
Noctis shrugged. “Not really?” The motion caused his chains to rattle in the tight space. “Most of the guys I’ve been kidnapped by all want the same thing: revenge or money.”
“I can assure you that my reason is definitely not for any monetary reason.” The man took a step towards him. “I suppose you could call it revenge, though I admit you are simply unlucky—to be chosen by the gods.” He cupped Noctis’ cheek with surprising tenderness, brushing his thumb along his cheekbones. “You do bear a striking resemblance to him.”
A nail dug it the flesh underneath his eye and Noctis hissed, attempting to turn his face out of the man’s grip. “What a pity,” the man said, releasing his hold on Noctis. “Before we begin, I think it’s only fair that you finally be able to put a name to your captor.”
“Oh now you want to introduce yourself?” Noctis grumbled—because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life apparently.
Fortunately, the man seemed amused by his comment. “Do forgive me for my rudeness, your highness .” The mocking emphasis he placed on the title was not lost to Noctis, but he didn’t dignify him with an answer. “I’ve been reduced to the moniker ‘Adagium,’ by the royal line of Lucis.”
It sounded familiar, but Noctis couldn’t place where he’d heard it. Had the name come up in his studies? Was it a political thing?
Adagium sighed and shook his head. “I’m not surprised you don’t know of me. Your dear father is desperately trying to keep you in the dark.”
Noctis furrowed his brow. “What do you mean he’s keeping me in the dark?”
With a shake of his head, Adagium stepped back over to his equipment. “I’ve talked enough for now, it’s time we get the show started lest the party be stopped before it’s even begun.” Adagium grinned at him. “The stage is yours, prince Noctis.”
A red light blinked to life on the camera as Noctis stared into the lens. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Did Adagium want him to beg? To show whoever was watching the video that he was scared? He wasn’t. Scared that it is. Unnerved? Yes, how could he not be when he was kidnapped and tied up in some unknown location.
His captor sighed tilting his hat to cover his face and—
Adagium changed. No longer was he wearing the extravagant, pattern-clashing, textile collage of an outfit. He was in a set of armor, his face masked and hair tucked away under the rigid helmet. Noctis had only seen the armor in person once before on that fateful escape from Tenebrae as he reached desperately for Luna’s hand.
Magitek armor.
To see the man stripped of his individualism did more to bother Noctis than he expected. Something about the metal, placid expression staring at him had his stomach clenching nervously. How had Adagium done it? An illusion? But how? To his knowledge, illusion magic was typically only used by the messengers of the gods; he figured he’d already met all of them at this point with his connection to Luna.
With four jerky steps, Adagium stood beside him, a hand painfully clasping his shoulder. Noctis side-eyed the man as if he could glean some sort of direction for what he wanted Noctis to do.
Once again, Adadgium broke the silence. “Salutations, Your Majesty, Regis Lucis Caelum,” Adagium said, “113th monarch in the long line of Lucis.”
He’d somehow managed to project his voice to see like he was behind the camera again. Another impossibility Noctis didn’t know how to find an answer to.
“As you can see, I have an auspicious guest with me, one I know you’re well-acquainted with. Won’t you say hello to your dear father, Noct?” Adagium asked.
Gritting his teeth, Noctis glared at a spot on the wall. He wasn’t going to give the other what he wanted, not when he could still deny him of his game. If he could weaponize his silence, he would.
With an angry tut from Adagium, Noctis’ hair was yanked with a merciless tug, pulling his head backward and exposing his throat. He could feel the handful of hair desperately trying to cling to his scalp as he let out a small whimper at the rough treatment.
“What a difficult boy,” Adagium commented, “he must’ve been quite the child to raise. To think he’d forget his manners at a time like this.”
“Shut up,” Noctis growled.
“Oh he speaks! Splendid! Now while I’ve broken through that stony exterior, we can commence the show.”
Suddenly, a knife was pressed against Noctis’ neck. He flinched back into Adagium’s hold on his hair, but the knife followed, the edge of the blade making a small, shallow cut on the delicate skin of his neck. He was helpless, tied up, and at the mercy of his captor. And it didn’t seem like Adagium had any qualms against hurting him.
The blood that lazily oozed from the wound dripped down his neck and settled into his jugular notch like a morbid jewel. Noctis heard Adagium’s hum of approval and could feel the pressure of the knife increase slightly as if Adagium had lapsed in his awareness that he was the one holding the knife and thus in control of how far the blade entered Noctis’ flesh.
“Now, I understand why Lucis values black as a special color—it goes amazingly with blood red, wouldn’t you agree?”
He said it so off-handedly that Noctis wasn’t sure who he was talking to: Noctis, Regis, or himself. What was clear, was that Adagium had a deep-seated grudge against Lucis—the royal line in particular. But why? Was he from one of the outer nations that had been left behind when his father had to pull back the wall to just the city of Lucis?
Adagium broke out of his musings, finally pulling the knife back enough that it was just resting against the cut. “Never mind that,” he said. “I expect you’re waiting for some kind of demand from me. Money? Some impossible wish for power? Recognition?” Noctis could hear the smirk in his voice, that deceptively playful quirk of his lips. “No, I don’t want any of those, not explicitly at least.”
What do you want? Noctis didn’t voice no matter how much he wanted to. This little video of Adagium’s seemed to be going nowhere which could be good if this was a live broadcast, build the tension maybe.
“My reason for kidnapping Noct is very simple: because I could.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that Noctis’ brain stumbled to a halt. That’s it? Because he could? That didn’t make any sense, not when Adagium had brought up some kind of revenge. “What happened to your revenge?” Noctis asked. “You mentioned your reasons could be considered revenge and the gods.” He remembered the forlorn look in Adagium’s eyes before the rage had trickled back in. “You said I resembled someone, Adagium.”
He knew he was being bold, foolhardy more accurately, but his captor hadn’t revealed his name and Noctis was hoping if he brought up his aforementioned desire for revenge on film he’d reveal more of his reasoning. If the heroes in movies could get a villain to reveal their schemes, Noctis should be able to do it to Adagium.
Adagium’s grip on his hair tightened, Noctis crying out as several strands were tugged out of his scalp. “Oh Noct,” he purred, “I see you’ve decided to join the conversation.”
Noctis felt his skin crawl at the contemptuous pride in Adagium’s voice. He’d overstepped with his nosy questions.
“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” Adagium said. “You remember Adagium, do you not Your Majesty? The mythical monster locked away in the dark depths of Angelgard for ages, lost to time amongst the words of false kings and fraudulent nations.”
Who was Adagium? Noctis wondered, a stray tear slipping down the side of his face towards his hairline. “Why?” Noctis whispered, afraid of the answer he’d receive but unwilling to let his question lie.
The magitek disguise rippled ominously, a black miasma seeping through the gaps of armor. Quickly, the figure of Adagium was being overshadowed by the mist. The tiny glints of gold light within the consuming shadows was what gave away the nature of the mist: Starscourge.
Eyes wide, Noctis struggled in the man’s grip. He remembered when the Starscourge had infected him as a child when the Marilith had sliced his back open and nearly severed his spinal cord. The burning agony of the scourge ravaging his body, when not even his coma brought him relief from its infection. The hushed cries of similarly infected at the edges of his mind like a web of anguish, ever-growing with each infected. Get away getawaygetaway.
His struggling was for naught as the black mirage leaned closer to him. “Why?” Adagium asked the hand that held the knife lazily dragged to the center of his chest. “Because I was saving people. Because that first false king was jealous and power-hungry, over-eager to be the one to wear the crown. And the rest,” he spat the word, “never bothered to question any of their forebears, convinced that they had always done what was best for the kingdom of Lucis.”
Noctis shook his head as best he could. “But why would they—“
“Because the gods didn’t stop them.” The knife in his hand pressed harder against Noctis’ chest and hissed at the sting of the blade. “But the time of reckoning is steadily approaching!”
With a flourish of his hand, the knife was sent away. Noctis thought it was eerily similar to accessing the armiger. “While all the pieces aren’t in their proper place just yet, a bit of ‘divine retribution’ soothes the soul.”
“What do you mean by divine retribution?” Noctis asked, his voice far quieter than he expected.
The miasma cloud seemed to grin impossibly wide, though he couldn’t discern an actual face. “I thought it would be perfect for you to atone on behalf of your forebears, Noct. And to have your father helplessly watch as he struggles to find you.”
Adagium stood behind him once more and wrapped his arms loosely around Noctis’ shoulders. “Let’s have the chosen, King of Light spend some time in the dark,” he purred, black ichor dripping onto his shirt. Onto his head. Onto his face. It was everywhere and Noctis couldn’t focus on anything else.
A few years ago I made the Plot Dot (now free on Amazon!) – my simple 8 step outline for writing novels, with the major dramatic twists most stories need to hit. I always wanted a more in-depth plotting outline and cheatsheet, but there’s so many conflicting story structures out there… this week however, I managed to put together a 24 step chapter outline for commercial fiction.
