We're All Stories

I write fics on and off when inspiration hits, I have a thing for crossovers, and OTPs that ruin my life. Also known as the one-shot wonder. Fandom blog, personal sideblog, etc. 33. She/her. Main blog is neofeliis.tumblr.com Neenwrites on FFnet and AO3. Icon by the wonderful rboz.tumblr.com

[neen-writes]

it’s so obvious that i’m normal about your witcher au … so if u can… do you have any references to what you think their outfits are.. ik gajeels armor is like black scales and i have a vague idea BUT i also have an unreliable brain TV that will keep morphing his armor to whatever and ill be like fuck where is the passage describing it 😭😭 i also totally don’t want to draw this au but am deathly afraid of getting the details wrong nope totally not nope not me at all whatttt??

also.. bc i can.. THANK YOU FOR WRITING THIS AU AGAAINNN ITS SO GOOD DUDEEEEE

I am so

Honestly just reeling still from all your reactions and JFC it makes me remember why I loved writing so much. Truly beside myself. 

Now, yes I did have a sort of description for Levy. I sketched her years ago and boy it's a bad sketch but I had sort of ciri's outfit in mind for her but just, simpler. These days in the fic she's wearing a cloak with a hood over it all. She lets her hair just kinda roam free and doesn't tie it back. She's since ditched the headband. Also she probably has more pouches than this? Outfit design isn't my strong suit.

As for Gajeel...boy I sure don't know how armor works. The scale mail i imagined on like. Plates on his arms and on his bracers, and spreading over his shoulders. With something like this on his chest with probably relief detailing worked into the leather because I imagine Natsu would have really made this with care:

He's still got all his piercings and wears the hair up.

Tbh I looked at a lot of late game Geralt armor from the Witcher game and kind of tried to work off that?l to imagine scale mail? But tbh I don't think there is a wrong way to imagine them cause AAAAAA

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Ch. 9 "Exposed"

Pairing: Gajeel/Levy

Series: Fairy Tail, Witcher AU

Notes: Shorter than usual, but I had this scene in my head for a while and really just wanted to write some tension. Next chapter will have some actual plot but we love some prickly Gajeel.

Read on Ao3

--

The horse made it about twenty feet with the bolt in its flesh before it collapsed, riderless, into the dirt. 

Gajeel barely manages to catch Levy gracelessly before she lands, thrown fully from the back of the beast. His hand latches onto her upper arm and the momentum spins him harshly to follow her down, slowing the impact just enough to avoid broken bones. He stumbles to keep from falling on top of her completely and the two lock eyes for a second to take quick stock. The mage’s eyes are wide as his sweep over her, and he realizes, belatedly, that his perspective is skewed and the blood dappling her clothing is thankfully not hers.

There’s a distant soft thud, and a hiss that has Gajeel moving. He releases his companion and instead slams his fist into the earth just beside her head. Shock lights her features, as another bolt glances off his armored forearm that would have planted itself somewhere around her face otherwise. A snarl tears from Gajeel, and he whirls to hone in on their attacker. He only needs the one eye to see the bloodied archer he evidently left alive knocking another bolt into his crossbow. He thinks how hard the man’s skull had to be to take the force of an aard and still be left breathing, let alone with an eye to see. Two of them, in fact.

Oh, Gajeel did not do well with one-upmanship.  

The tip of his steel blade drags in the dirt as he raises to his full height, angling himself fully to face the last bandit. Gajeel’s arms hang passively at his sides, his stance wide open. A dare, and a promise. The man’s first shot had hit true, opening up the side of his face enough that he spilled all over his fine new armor, the rain pooling red at his feet. But as he stands there, looking every bit like the Witcher that the bandit now recognized him to be, it’s clear as day that he will not land another.

The archer’s gaze flicks, just for a second, to the dirty mage behind him. There’s an uneasy shift in his stance, and his eyes narrow like trying to work out a problem. Levy tenses under his stare.

Whatever Gajeel had planned for his man would have to wait, because Levy had found her bearings, and was already on her feet. The incantation leaves her lips and with a small flourish of her hand the archer’s entire body locks. The crossbow falls from his grip, and releases its charge uselessly into the distance as soon as it hits the earth.

Gajeel swings his gaze to her, turning farther than necessary to accommodate for the frustrating blind spot, but she’s already striding past him. He opens his mouth to stop her, to caution her, but he notices the way her raised hand strains and falters. Her fingers look like the joints may pop at any moment, her tendons raised and strained against her usually smooth skin. It’s the only part of her that doesn’t resonate an eerie calm, each step falls near soundlessly until Levy finds herself a few feet from the bleeding assailant. She stares up into his strained face, craning her neck to make eye contact, and clicks her tongue. Her hand rotates sharply, and he drops to his knees hard enough to make him hiss.

He intends to struggle, but the only sign of resistance is his gargled breathing, and a contemptuous furrowing of his brow. The mage crouches in front of him and is the picture of serenity as she asks, “Do you know who I am?”

The balding man grits his teeth, glancing between the monster hunter and the mage more than once. He doesn’t answer.

Levy blows out a tired breath, and with it the brown bleeds from her hair. The ruffle of a gentle breeze, and the blue strands catch the grey light, dry only for a few moments before the pelting rain plasters it to her face. There’s a flicker of surprise, of knowing, in the man’s face. With or without words. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Now, question two, how?”

His crooked jaw works as he musters a snarl, but does not answer her. Her eyes flare, the color of her magic whirling just beneath the honey of her irises. She twists her hand again, and he drops forward onto his hands, his elbows shaking violently to keep himself upright. A small hum, and she twists a little more to bring him to his forearms. “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do. It’s important that you know that,” her voice barely sounds like her own.

Gajeel does not recognize the sorceress in front of him. He does not dislike what he sees, but he is struggling to adjust.

“It’s also important that you know there is an easy and a hard way for this conversation to progress,” she tilts her head and leans forward a fraction, her presence a silent command for him to maintain eye contact with her. Her eyes are half lidded, her lashes fan across her cheeks with each blink. “Let’s make the smart choice,” her voice drops an octave. His attention gravitates, held for several hungry heartbeats, before he snaps himself out of it and spits at her. The insult barely hits before her hand moves to hover above him and his already injured face slams downwards. Never really could get that to work for me.

A furious groan shakes him. “Is your fuckin’ guard dog gonna show me the easy way, sweetheart? Laying out your hand a bit heavy don't y’think?” he sneers into the dirt, angling to speak out the side of his mouth. Gajeel inches closer at the mention of his presence; there's an itch under the skin of his palms that distracts him from the throb in his temple. “You don't look like the killin’ type, witch.” Levy’s brows lift a fraction. “I got three more boys in them trees that know who ye are now! Witch hunters will be right pleased, they will!”

The witcher’s eyes flick upwards, but Levy is entirely unphased and doesn’t bother to check. “Look a woman in the eyes when you lie to her,” she croons. A twitch of a finger, and his head crooks unnaturally to the side to reveal more of his face. She lets silence settle just long enough to see the flicker of doubt in the man’s face, and it's all the answer she needs. “And to be clear, this is in fact the easy way,” her tone levels out and she eases back on the balls of her feet. “Can we try again? How do you know me?” she probes again. 

“You mages think the world o’ yourselves, eh? Think they'll never find ye, never set ye to the pyres,” there's a nasally edge to his voice as his broken nose fills with blood. “Fat pouch of coin for you Lodge whores these days.”

Gajeel looks pointedly at her now, and if she’s unsettled by what he tells her, she doesn’t show it. Instead she mocks a look of disingenuous satisfaction. A tilt of her head and a small smile, like thanking someone for buying something. Levy rises to her feet and like the snap of a bowstring, tension releases from her. The bandit falls into a messy coughing fit, the hold on him entirely dissolved. “That’ll do,” she mumbles, sounding far more tired than she should. Her eyes flick up to the Witcher, but she says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

He didn’t realize he was yielding to her permission until she gave it. For some reason, the man being back at Gajeel’s mercy made him acutely aware of how much his face fucking stung. The itching returned to his palms and he sheathed his blade before advancing quickly to the bandit that had rolled over to try and find his feet again. 

The Witcher would not repeat his mistake twice. 

Gajeel swept down to take a fistful of the man’s tunic, anchoring him, as his free hand pressed into his face. The body had nowhere to go as the blast surges from Gajeel’s palm, and their head jerks back at a terrible angle.

Nothing remains but the hiss of the rain as the corpse drops unceremoniously into the mud, and Gajeel finally puts his full attention back onto his companion. 

With the threat finally gone and the two of them left alone, with no mount, in the middle of the road, Levy finally yields to utter frustration. She paces left and right, like she can’t find somewhere to go, as she runs her hands through her wet hair and a string of soft curses fall under her breath.

Gajeel takes a moment to scan their surroundings for any more signs of movement, before leaving her to see to the horse. Or rather, anything worth carrying from the saddlebags. He’d had the mare since Midcopse, and already that felt like an age ago. But at least it wasn’t his horse. Lily would have a fit if he was here, Gajeel thought bitterly, wondering where where his friend was these days.

He grabs whatever he can, and turns to make sure his mage is still where he left her. She’s stopped pacing, and just stares down at the body near her feet. He makes a small hum of disapproval, and rejoins her. “Likely they had a camp nearby, ought to see if anythin’s worth using,” Gajeel offered, his voice a restrained timbre.

Levy starts, like she had forgotten he was with her, and looks up at him fully. Realization lights up in her eyes, and the distant look is gone in an instant. “Your eye,” she breathes, already moving to step much closer to him, her hands raised.

Gajeel instinctively straightens his posture as much as he’s able, and Levy pauses in front of his towering figure. His stare is sharp, half his face covered in deep crimson. There’s no way of knowing how severe the injury is without cleaning up him, but she can only see one yellow iris as it scours over her. The image before her isn’t lost on the mage. His black scalemail and the rivulets of red that paint the spaces between, the entirely wild way his hair has escaped the binds of the ponytail and clings to his face.

There’s an edge to his expression, but he finally speaks again, “Are you hurt?”

Levy deflates a little, “I’ll be a little sore in the morning, but I’m fine.”

Gajeel could not look less satisfied with the answer as he continues to look her over, his gaze finally catching on a tear just below the knee of her trousers. The Witcher didn’t want to give any credit to the bandit’s first shot, but with one bolt he had torn past Gajeel’s face and grazed her clothing into the flesh of the horse. Any small adjustment and the injury could have just as easily been hers instead. Hell, he’d fallen from horses and it hurt like a bitch. 

Had he not caught her. Had the bolt not hit him instead. His gaze flicks quickly to the corpse pooling in the mud and he feels a prickling heat on the back of his neck. The spiral of “what ifs” take root voraciously, and it takes Gajeel a moment to even recognize it and shut it back out. His gaze returns to her briefly then looks off in the direction the men had come from.

“We’ll take what we can and move on. Base isn’t far but looks like we’ll be going on foot,” he finally grumbles, and with a jerk of his chin he heads off into the edge of the tree cover.

Levy nods and follows after, noticing pretty quickly the tense set of his shoulders. He’s upset, she thinks, but the reason why is lost to her. 

Sure enough, they find a ramshackle camp not far up a small hill. As Levy glances back over her shoulder through the thin trees, she notes the clear and far view up the road they had from here. The group would have seen them coming for some time, and when she notes about where she thinks the two of them were when the bandits revealed themselves, she thinks that a set of double swords and a second rider would have been pretty visible. Unclear if they were waiting for them, but they certainly could have acted when they had an idea of who they were. 

The idea that anyone out here knows to look for the Witcher and the mage does not sit well with her. Especially when not but a few weeks ago she knew the comforts of complete obscurity. As far as the world was concerned she was dead. 

Things were significantly easier when she was dead.

Gajeel drops to a knee in front of one of the tents and rifles through their belongings. A pouch jingles, and he pockets it. Very little else sticks out to him, just an assortment of worn down, stolen goods. The entire camp stinks of wet dog.

He bristles when she appears next to him, then calms just as quickly. She has a roll of cloth in her hands, and it’s probably the cleanest thing here. “Looks like they stole some medical supplies, but either ditched or used anything helpful. Let me see,” she reaches out for him and he stiffens, but doesn’t move away.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles.

The mage narrows her eyes and holds out her hand somewhere to the left of his face. “How many fingers?”

Gajeel grits his teeth and tries to turn his head to get some kind of periphery with his good eye, but she takes that same hand and grips him by the chin, keeping his look straight on. “Shut up and give me a minute to look at you, it’s not like it’s the first time.” 

Muscles tense along his jaw as he recalls the much simpler time when she was a no-name herbalist who had hired him to kill a fiend. The effortless conversation in her home, in front of a fire, while she patched him up. When he thought it was one and done, when he thought he left her safer than he found her.

“Gajeel,” she insists.

His resistance is palpable, but he pivots to sit flat on the earth and lets her bring the cloth to his face as she kneels on the ground next to him. Gajeel hisses sharply, but she’s careful. He lets several moments of quiet to stretch between them before he loses his fight to keep his mouth shut. “You were supposed to keep your cover.”

Levy pauses, but doesn’t bother to meet his stare before she resumes dabbing away at the blood. Hells, I forget how much faces bleed, she thinks. As she clears away some of the blood, she sees the laceration that spreads along his temple to the very outer corner of his left eye, and just grazes the bridge of his nose. Another vicious scar to add to his collection. “Yes, well, I needed to adapt.” The Witcher leans back then, away from her touch, and levels a withering stare at her. Ah, very upset then.

“You’re reckless,” he says, “there could have been more of ‘em, like he said, and ya blew your cover.”

Levy drops her hand slightly and gives him a defiant glare. “There weren’t.”

“There could have been.”

Now the sorceress fully pulled back, and her face is the image of tired impatience. “They already had their eyes on me before I dropped my glamor, Gajeel. I thought it was because of, well,” she paused, “But something was off. I needed to know if news of the resurrection of a Lodge sorceress could have made it to the rabble.” She tries again to tend to him, needing to keep her hands busy. In all truth, the revelation that her life was so widely known, that people were looking for her and her peers had her reeling. It was going to take time to adjust to the feeling that the world was against her. The last thing she needs is to feel like he’s against her too.

Gajeel’s eye narrows and his hands work repeatedly into fists in his lap. “You’re paying me to escort ya, presumably because you need the muscle to keep you safe. And when you’re reckless, it doesn’t make it easy on me. You were reckless there, reckless at the windmill, and goddamn complacent at the checkpoint. You’ll end up back in dimeritium fuckin quick at this rate.” There’s a harder edge in his voice than he intends as the list of failures tumbles out, and each one slices at the carefully built composure in her eyes. Regret sinks like a stone immediately after.

Levy sighs, and an exhausted frustration radiates from her. “I didn’t force you to take this contract,” her voice is even, calm as she tries to focus all her attention on the blind half of his injured face. 

Gajeel rears back, and she can’t tell what he’s angry at, but he is absolutely angry. The words are out before he can stop them. “Didn’t you?” 

The mage stills, before pulling her hands back to her lap. This was getting nowhere, but the accusation strikes her more than anything else. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“You–” he starts, a slew of words on his tongue, but he cuts himself short. What was he going to tell her? That the shittier, impulsive side of him nearly blamed her for his lack of sleep? For haunting his dreams, like she had put some kind of hex on him? That kind of thinking was for the same common folk that made rumors about his own kind. It was ignorant, unkind, and didn’t have a shred of truth. He didn’t know her well, but well enough to know that isn’t her way. And it is unfair beyond words to put that on her. He knows, he knows she doesn't deserve that.

But whether he likes it or not he’s already said it, by hardly saying anything at all.

His silence is enough for Levy, and disappointment darkens her features. “My apologies,” she reaches out to take his hand suddenly, shocking him so sharply that he can barely react before she shoves the cloth into it and lets go, “for being such an inconvenience. I'll keep that in mind the next time a Kingdom wants me dead. It’s not much farther until you can drop me off, yeah?” she glances at the cloth in his hand, “Keep pressure on that.”

She’s on her feet before Gajeel can try to hash together an apology. The words fail him spectacularly as she goes to sift through some tents she’s absolutely already searched. Way to fucking go you absolute twit.

Gajeel quells the urge to punch something and instead presses the cloth into his wound a lot harder than necessary. The anger coils sickeningly in his gut, and for a man who survives by his discipline, his ability to keep things like that locked away, it’s an embarrassment. What reason does he have to take it out on her? 

Just because there were a few short moments that he wasn’t in control, where he had let his hold on her safety slip. All to some worthless criminal that he left alive. It was his failure, not hers.

This was why he dealt with monsters.

He grit his teeth, swallowing down a curse, and threw the cloth into the dirt before rising to his feet. “If we leave now we’ll make it by dinner,” he announced, unable to bring himself to look at her.

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Ch. 9 "Exposed"

Pairing: Gajeel/Levy

Series: Fairy Tail, Witcher AU

Notes: Shorter than usual, but I had this scene in my head for a while and really just wanted to write some tension. Next chapter will have some actual plot but we love some prickly Gajeel.

Read on Ao3

--

The horse made it about twenty feet with the bolt in its flesh before it collapsed, riderless, into the dirt. 

Gajeel barely manages to catch Levy gracelessly before she lands, thrown fully from the back of the beast. His hand latches onto her upper arm and the momentum spins him harshly to follow her down, slowing the impact just enough to avoid broken bones. He stumbles to keep from falling on top of her completely and the two lock eyes for a second to take quick stock. The mage’s eyes are wide as his sweep over her, and he realizes, belatedly, that his perspective is skewed and the blood dappling her clothing is thankfully not hers.

There’s a distant soft thud, and a hiss that has Gajeel moving. He releases his companion and instead slams his fist into the earth just beside her head. Shock lights her features, as another bolt glances off his armored forearm that would have planted itself somewhere around her face otherwise. A snarl tears from Gajeel, and he whirls to hone in on their attacker. He only needs the one eye to see the bloodied archer he evidently left alive knocking another bolt into his crossbow. He thinks how hard the man’s skull had to be to take the force of an aard and still be left breathing, let alone with an eye to see. Two of them, in fact.

Oh, Gajeel did not do well with one-upmanship.  

The tip of his steel blade drags in the dirt as he raises to his full height, angling himself fully to face the last bandit. Gajeel’s arms hang passively at his sides, his stance wide open. A dare, and a promise. The man’s first shot had hit true, opening up the side of his face enough that he spilled all over his fine new armor, the rain pooling red at his feet. But as he stands there, looking every bit like the Witcher that the bandit now recognized him to be, it’s clear as day that he will not land another.

The archer’s gaze flicks, just for a second, to the dirty mage behind him. There’s an uneasy shift in his stance, and his eyes narrow like trying to work out a problem. Levy tenses under his stare.

Whatever Gajeel had planned for his man would have to wait, because Levy had found her bearings, and was already on her feet. The incantation leaves her lips and with a small flourish of her hand the archer’s entire body locks. The crossbow falls from his grip, and releases its charge uselessly into the distance as soon as it hits the earth.

Gajeel swings his gaze to her, turning farther than necessary to accommodate for the frustrating blind spot, but she’s already striding past him. He opens his mouth to stop her, to caution her, but he notices the way her raised hand strains and falters. Her fingers look like the joints may pop at any moment, her tendons raised and strained against her usually smooth skin. It’s the only part of her that doesn’t resonate an eerie calm, each step falls near soundlessly until Levy finds herself a few feet from the bleeding assailant. She stares up into his strained face, craning her neck to make eye contact, and clicks her tongue. Her hand rotates sharply, and he drops to his knees hard enough to make him hiss.

He intends to struggle, but the only sign of resistance is his gargled breathing, and a contemptuous furrowing of his brow. The mage crouches in front of him and is the picture of serenity as she asks, “Do you know who I am?”

The balding man grits his teeth, glancing between the monster hunter and the mage more than once. He doesn’t answer.

Levy blows out a tired breath, and with it the brown bleeds from her hair. The ruffle of a gentle breeze, and the blue strands catch the grey light, dry only for a few moments before the pelting rain plasters it to her face. There’s a flicker of surprise, of knowing, in the man’s face. With or without words. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Now, question two, how?”

His crooked jaw works as he musters a snarl, but does not answer her. Her eyes flare, the color of her magic whirling just beneath the honey of her irises. She twists her hand again, and he drops forward onto his hands, his elbows shaking violently to keep himself upright. A small hum, and she twists a little more to bring him to his forearms. “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do. It’s important that you know that,” her voice barely sounds like her own.

Gajeel does not recognize the sorceress in front of him. He does not dislike what he sees, but he is struggling to adjust.

“It’s also important that you know there is an easy and a hard way for this conversation to progress,” she tilts her head and leans forward a fraction, her presence a silent command for him to maintain eye contact with her. Her eyes are half lidded, her lashes fan across her cheeks with each blink. “Let’s make the smart choice,” her voice drops an octave. His attention gravitates, held for several hungry heartbeats, before he snaps himself out of it and spits at her. The insult barely hits before her hand moves to hover above him and his already injured face slams downwards. Never really could get that to work for me.

A furious groan shakes him. “Is your fuckin’ guard dog gonna show me the easy way, sweetheart? Laying out your hand a bit heavy don't y’think?” he sneers into the dirt, angling to speak out the side of his mouth. Gajeel inches closer at the mention of his presence; there's an itch under the skin of his palms that distracts him from the throb in his temple. “You don't look like the killin’ type, witch.” Levy’s brows lift a fraction. “I got three more boys in them trees that know who ye are now! Witch hunters will be right pleased, they will!”

The witcher’s eyes flick upwards, but Levy is entirely unphased and doesn’t bother to check. “Look a woman in the eyes when you lie to her,” she croons. A twitch of a finger, and his head crooks unnaturally to the side to reveal more of his face. She lets silence settle just long enough to see the flicker of doubt in the man’s face, and it's all the answer she needs. “And to be clear, this is in fact the easy way,” her tone levels out and she eases back on the balls of her feet. “Can we try again? How do you know me?” she probes again. 

“You mages think the world o’ yourselves, eh? Think they'll never find ye, never set ye to the pyres,” there's a nasally edge to his voice as his broken nose fills with blood. “Fat pouch of coin for you Lodge whores these days.”

Gajeel looks pointedly at her now, and if she’s unsettled by what he tells her, she doesn’t show it. Instead she mocks a look of disingenuous satisfaction. A tilt of her head and a small smile, like thanking someone for buying something. Levy rises to her feet and like the snap of a bowstring, tension releases from her. The bandit falls into a messy coughing fit, the hold on him entirely dissolved. “That’ll do,” she mumbles, sounding far more tired than she should. Her eyes flick up to the Witcher, but she says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

He didn’t realize he was yielding to her permission until she gave it. For some reason, the man being back at Gajeel’s mercy made him acutely aware of how much his face fucking stung. The itching returned to his palms and he sheathed his blade before advancing quickly to the bandit that had rolled over to try and find his feet again. 

The Witcher would not repeat his mistake twice. 

Gajeel swept down to take a fistful of the man’s tunic, anchoring him, as his free hand pressed into his face. The body had nowhere to go as the blast surges from Gajeel’s palm, and their head jerks back at a terrible angle.

Nothing remains but the hiss of the rain as the corpse drops unceremoniously into the mud, and Gajeel finally puts his full attention back onto his companion. 

With the threat finally gone and the two of them left alone, with no mount, in the middle of the road, Levy finally yields to utter frustration. She paces left and right, like she can’t find somewhere to go, as she runs her hands through her wet hair and a string of soft curses fall under her breath.

Gajeel takes a moment to scan their surroundings for any more signs of movement, before leaving her to see to the horse. Or rather, anything worth carrying from the saddlebags. He’d had the mare since Midcopse, and already that felt like an age ago. But at least it wasn’t his horse. Lily would have a fit if he was here, Gajeel thought bitterly, wondering where where his friend was these days.

He grabs whatever he can, and turns to make sure his mage is still where he left her. She’s stopped pacing, and just stares down at the body near her feet. He makes a small hum of disapproval, and rejoins her. “Likely they had a camp nearby, ought to see if anythin’s worth using,” Gajeel offered, his voice a restrained timbre.

Levy starts, like she had forgotten he was with her, and looks up at him fully. Realization lights up in her eyes, and the distant look is gone in an instant. “Your eye,” she breathes, already moving to step much closer to him, her hands raised.

Gajeel instinctively straightens his posture as much as he’s able, and Levy pauses in front of his towering figure. His stare is sharp, half his face covered in deep crimson. There’s no way of knowing how severe the injury is without cleaning up him, but she can only see one yellow iris as it scours over her. The image before her isn’t lost on the mage. His black scalemail and the rivulets of red that paint the spaces between, the entirely wild way his hair has escaped the binds of the ponytail and clings to his face.

There’s an edge to his expression, but he finally speaks again, “Are you hurt?”

Levy deflates a little, “I’ll be a little sore in the morning, but I’m fine.”

Gajeel could not look less satisfied with the answer as he continues to look her over, his gaze finally catching on a tear just below the knee of her trousers. The Witcher didn’t want to give any credit to the bandit’s first shot, but with one bolt he had torn past Gajeel’s face and grazed her clothing into the flesh of the horse. Any small adjustment and the injury could have just as easily been hers instead. Hell, he’d fallen from horses and it hurt like a bitch. 

Had he not caught her. Had the bolt not hit him instead. His gaze flicks quickly to the corpse pooling in the mud and he feels a prickling heat on the back of his neck. The spiral of “what ifs” take root voraciously, and it takes Gajeel a moment to even recognize it and shut it back out. His gaze returns to her briefly then looks off in the direction the men had come from.

“We’ll take what we can and move on. Base isn’t far but looks like we’ll be going on foot,” he finally grumbles, and with a jerk of his chin he heads off into the edge of the tree cover.

Levy nods and follows after, noticing pretty quickly the tense set of his shoulders. He’s upset, she thinks, but the reason why is lost to her. 

Sure enough, they find a ramshackle camp not far up a small hill. As Levy glances back over her shoulder through the thin trees, she notes the clear and far view up the road they had from here. The group would have seen them coming for some time, and when she notes about where she thinks the two of them were when the bandits revealed themselves, she thinks that a set of double swords and a second rider would have been pretty visible. Unclear if they were waiting for them, but they certainly could have acted when they had an idea of who they were. 

The idea that anyone out here knows to look for the Witcher and the mage does not sit well with her. Especially when not but a few weeks ago she knew the comforts of complete obscurity. As far as the world was concerned she was dead. 

Things were significantly easier when she was dead.

Gajeel drops to a knee in front of one of the tents and rifles through their belongings. A pouch jingles, and he pockets it. Very little else sticks out to him, just an assortment of worn down, stolen goods. The entire camp stinks of wet dog.

He bristles when she appears next to him, then calms just as quickly. She has a roll of cloth in her hands, and it’s probably the cleanest thing here. “Looks like they stole some medical supplies, but either ditched or used anything helpful. Let me see,” she reaches out for him and he stiffens, but doesn’t move away.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles.

The mage narrows her eyes and holds out her hand somewhere to the left of his face. “How many fingers?”

Gajeel grits his teeth and tries to turn his head to get some kind of periphery with his good eye, but she takes that same hand and grips him by the chin, keeping his look straight on. “Shut up and give me a minute to look at you, it’s not like it’s the first time.” 

Muscles tense along his jaw as he recalls the much simpler time when she was a no-name herbalist who had hired him to kill a fiend. The effortless conversation in her home, in front of a fire, while she patched him up. When he thought it was one and done, when he thought he left her safer than he found her.

“Gajeel,” she insists.

His resistance is palpable, but he pivots to sit flat on the earth and lets her bring the cloth to his face as she kneels on the ground next to him. Gajeel hisses sharply, but she’s careful. He lets several moments of quiet to stretch between them before he loses his fight to keep his mouth shut. “You were supposed to keep your cover.”

Levy pauses, but doesn’t bother to meet his stare before she resumes dabbing away at the blood. Hells, I forget how much faces bleed, she thinks. As she clears away some of the blood, she sees the laceration that spreads along his temple to the very outer corner of his left eye, and just grazes the bridge of his nose. Another vicious scar to add to his collection. “Yes, well, I needed to adapt.” The Witcher leans back then, away from her touch, and levels a withering stare at her. Ah, very upset then.

“You’re reckless,” he says, “there could have been more of ‘em, like he said, and ya blew your cover.”

Levy drops her hand slightly and gives him a defiant glare. “There weren’t.”

“There could have been.”

Now the sorceress fully pulled back, and her face is the image of tired impatience. “They already had their eyes on me before I dropped my glamor, Gajeel. I thought it was because of, well,” she paused, “But something was off. I needed to know if news of the resurrection of a Lodge sorceress could have made it to the rabble.” She tries again to tend to him, needing to keep her hands busy. In all truth, the revelation that her life was so widely known, that people were looking for her and her peers had her reeling. It was going to take time to adjust to the feeling that the world was against her. The last thing she needs is to feel like he’s against her too.

Gajeel’s eye narrows and his hands work repeatedly into fists in his lap. “You’re paying me to escort ya, presumably because you need the muscle to keep you safe. And when you’re reckless, it doesn’t make it easy on me. You were reckless there, reckless at the windmill, and goddamn complacent at the checkpoint. You’ll end up back in dimeritium fuckin quick at this rate.” There’s a harder edge in his voice than he intends as the list of failures tumbles out, and each one slices at the carefully built composure in her eyes. Regret sinks like a stone immediately after.

Levy sighs, and an exhausted frustration radiates from her. “I didn’t force you to take this contract,” her voice is even, calm as she tries to focus all her attention on the blind half of his injured face. 

Gajeel rears back, and she can’t tell what he’s angry at, but he is absolutely angry. The words are out before he can stop them. “Didn’t you?” 

The mage stills, before pulling her hands back to her lap. This was getting nowhere, but the accusation strikes her more than anything else. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“You–” he starts, a slew of words on his tongue, but he cuts himself short. What was he going to tell her? That the shittier, impulsive side of him nearly blamed her for his lack of sleep? For haunting his dreams, like she had put some kind of hex on him? That kind of thinking was for the same common folk that made rumors about his own kind. It was ignorant, unkind, and didn’t have a shred of truth. He didn’t know her well, but well enough to know that isn’t her way. And it is unfair beyond words to put that on her. He knows, he knows she doesn't deserve that.

But whether he likes it or not he’s already said it, by hardly saying anything at all.

His silence is enough for Levy, and disappointment darkens her features. “My apologies,” she reaches out to take his hand suddenly, shocking him so sharply that he can barely react before she shoves the cloth into it and lets go, “for being such an inconvenience. I'll keep that in mind the next time a Kingdom wants me dead. It’s not much farther until you can drop me off, yeah?” she glances at the cloth in his hand, “Keep pressure on that.”

She’s on her feet before Gajeel can try to hash together an apology. The words fail him spectacularly as she goes to sift through some tents she’s absolutely already searched. Way to fucking go you absolute twit.

Gajeel quells the urge to punch something and instead presses the cloth into his wound a lot harder than necessary. The anger coils sickeningly in his gut, and for a man who survives by his discipline, his ability to keep things like that locked away, it’s an embarrassment. What reason does he have to take it out on her? 

Just because there were a few short moments that he wasn’t in control, where he had let his hold on her safety slip. All to some worthless criminal that he left alive. It was his failure, not hers.

This was why he dealt with monsters.

He grit his teeth, swallowing down a curse, and threw the cloth into the dirt before rising to his feet. “If we leave now we’ll make it by dinner,” he announced, unable to bring himself to look at her.

[neen-writes]

Probably gonna have the SfM update up today 👀

[neen-writes]

I don't really do short updates, but I'm thinking of just doing a short chapter update for SfM. It just has a natural break where the next thing would begin, but it's about half of what my usual length is. Buttttt I like what I have. Idk maybe I make the rules.

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Ch. 8 "Ghosts"

Pairing: Gajeel/Levy

Series: Fairy Tail, Witcher AU

Notes: Finally found the motivation to finish this chapter! It's a bit transitional, a bit tense, I'm hoping to get into some juicier stuff in the next chapter. Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

--

“Is it true what the folk say? That Witchers are emotionless?”

A small, half-dead fire cast weak light on the Witcher and the sorceress. He’d set it, and maintained it long enough to roast the small rabbit he shot shortly after setting camp. It was a meager meal, but they’d both brought enough supplemental vittles to make it a worthwhile meal.

Gajeel grimaced at the broad question, with so little nuance. He leveled a disappointed stare at her, arching a single brow, “Tell me you’re not so thick.”

She raised her hands in surrender with a dry laugh. “I’m joking. I have eyes, you know,” she offered. “Curious where the rumor comes from though.” They had spoken briefly about what he was when they’d first met. It felt like an age, now, since that night in her old home when she was patching up his wounds from the Fiend. When she thought that was to be the one and only time that she would ever meet and interact with the Witcher. It felt more valuable, then, to try and eke out whatever information she could get on Witchers if she was to never meet one again.

It was amusing, in retrospect, how ignorant the two of them were that night to everything they would experience in the coming days. When fate would draw the two unlikely allies together not once, twice, but three times. It started to feel like some sort of cosmic affront to do anything but travel together. Which led her to wonder what that would mean for them when she did find Erza. Would the two of them go their separate ways then? Levy and her compatriots, surely, would have no shortage of work to do when she found out whatever Erza had to impart upon them. None of which had to do with Gajeel. 

Levy had limited knowledge on Witchers, but she did know that they notoriously did not involve themselves in the matters of men. Certainly not kings. Hunters for hire, that was their purpose, and they had yet to make any qualms with that designation.

Gajeel showed little amusement or enthusiasm towards entertaining her line of conversation.  Especially given where they left off just a short time before settling down for the night. He’d grown more than accustomed to her composure, at times so steadfast that she readily humbled him into his own. Levy, in the short time he knew her, held her nerve. In the face of Temerian soldiers and Fiends in the dark, she stood steady. Yet this night, looking into a crowd of dancers, the mere possibility she saw someone she believed dead drove her to near madness.  The look in her eyes before almost calling out to the crowd was unrecognizable. Foreign.

Still, it was clear even to him that she was just trying to fill the silence, and he found himself with much more tolerance for her than he expected. If tolerance was even the word for it. Did tolerance feel like the overwhelming desire for her to talk to him?

He cleaned off the last bit of meat from a femur, and swiped the back of his hand at the grease on his mouth. “Same place they all come from. Shite storytellers with an agenda. Witchers were respected until they weren’t, and you know the damage the right people can do with ignorant townsfolk and a good motive.” There was no real bitterness or displeasure in his tone as much as there was boredom. It was a tired tale and it made no difference to him what people thought. If Witchers took the time to give a shit about the opinions of the masses, they’d never do anything else. “We gotta keep ourselves in check in this line o’ work anyway. Focused, disciplined, all that. It’s an easy image to keep.”

Levy cocked her head, leaning back against a tree. “It’s clearly untrue, why let them believe it?” 

Gajeel shrugged, “Why not? It’s good for business, and we get paid either way,” he flicked a cleaned bone off into the shrubs. “If you’re necessary, good at what you do, and feared, it tends to work in your favor.” With a long stick, he pushed around the charred logs in the fire, working to smother the remaining embers.  It was risky enough to set a fire, but they needed to eat, and if he was being honest, he wouldn’t have protested a little something to get his blood pumping.

The sorceress knit her brows together, “I have a sneaking suspicion that really only works if you’re a man.”

“It does. Good news for me,” he flashed a sly grin at her, which she did not return outright, but the twinkle was in her eye regardless. That should not have felt like as much of a victory as it did. “Though the stories ain’t stingy with how much not being a man works for you sorceresses,” Gajeel paused to puff out his chest a little and tilt up his chin, “Political power, wealth, positions of esteem.” There’s mockery in his tone coming from someone that had absolutely no regard for any of these things. Money he needed, sure, for gear and the day to day. But wealth? Nothing but problems.

Levy barked a laugh that lacked any shred of warmth. Ah, that was far less satisfying. “Oh yes, how mighty we are,” she sneered, adjusting the hood around her neck. “When men fear one another, they have an odd habit of turning it into respect or obedience. Oh but when men fear women, particularly those they cannot grasp and control when fires ignite in their gluttonous, round bellies…” She held his stare then, the dying firelight dancing across her features. He thought, suddenly, of when he first met her and the way her conjured fire illuminated her when facing the Fiend. How his immediate thought, before he controlled himself, was how terrifyingly beautiful she was. And how that clashed with what she was telling him now.

Half of the Lodge’s identity was their beauty. In fact, it had been an intentional representation, because magic and swords were not half as effective at gaining favor as desire. Part of their development as mages, a reward as it had once been called, was the ability to alter their appearances. If one had the chance to make themselves beautiful and young with a wave of their hand for the rest of their lives, who would pass the opportunity?

In their prime, their alliances wanted both their favor and their company in equal measure. The latter they could often dangle without ever having to follow through, though that wasn’t to say there hadn’t been sorceresses that readily wielded that weapon whenever the benefit arose. Vanity was a trademark of the Lodge, and they had no reason to hide it. Everything was a competition, least of all how many powerful men each had wrapped around their pinky.

The truth of the matter was the Lodge as a whole got cocky. Regardless if there were those of them who preferred more subtle, careful approaches, they were still a singular body in the eyes of kings. The fall was swift, brutal, and bloody. Now she lived in hiding, on the run, with all her relationships strained or burned.

“Well,” she continued, gesturing down at herself, “The story writes itself in living color.” Levy stared Gajeel down a moment longer, then sighed and looked off to the side. She was bitter, how could she not be? She crossed her arms, settled back into the tree best she could, and shut her eyes, “We should get some sleep.”

That was that, and any chance Gajeel had of pushing the issue, or any others burning in his mind was gone. He waited at least another hour to sleep, ensuring the fire was out entirely and their surroundings remained quiet. He told himself that was the only reason he stayed up, but his attention was split between their surroundings and the slow breaths of the demure mage. 

Gajeel wasn’t a curious man by nature. He did not linger, he did not dwell. He killed his targets, collected his reward, and moved on. But this situation he found himself in, somehow willingly, was against everything he thought himself to be. He wanted to know more about Levy, he wanted to help her.

A rustle in the brush coiled every muscle in his body, and his eyes flicked from her to motion where the shrubs cleared. A rabbit ran, the shadowed figure of some bird of prey trailing behind. He relaxed, and only then did he realize he had reflexively angled himself closer to her.

Gajeel wanted to protect her.

Those thoughts sat like stones in his chest. Dangerous, heavy stones. But even so, for the first time in the last few weeks, the Witcher’s sleep was dreamless, and the tug in his chest had gone still.

–

“What if they don’t like me, though?” green, expectant eyes turned up to the sorceress who was only a few inches taller than her. Two figures walked down familiarly cold, dreary halls, the shorter carrying a small stack of books.  Levy walked with a practiced poise, the straightness in her spine giving away some indication of a higher position.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” That was her voice, Levy’s voice, but it didn’t come from her. In fact, it was as thought she was watching herself from the outside. “Even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re the most talented prospect Aretuza has seen in an age.”

The younger pouted in response, “But I don’t want to just be a talent. You’re so many things, Levy. I want to be many things too.”

“Likable, among those?” Levy raised her brows and gave a warm, knowing smile to the young mage. “You have more to your advantage than you give yourself credit for.  Don’t let the jealousy of your year-mates distract you.”

They turned a corner, coming face to face with another woman dressed like Levy and with similarly perfect posture. A tail of near-white hair was braided over her right shoulder, hanging in front, tied with a black ribbon. All the sorceresses, even the sorcerers, out of Aretuza boasted fair looks, but Mirajane was nothing short of a vision. Devastatingly beautiful, she had spared no effort when given the opportunity to magically alter her appearance. It was as though she looked at every possible asset she could bestow upon herself, and said ‘yes, all.’

“Levy, Mavis,” she nodded to them both by way of greeting. Behind her, a small group of girls the same age as the younger mage with Levy suddenly found the walls and the floors more interesting. “Will you be joining class this evening, or will your lessons take up all your valuable time?” A sly, playfully accusatory look slid over to Levy, who merely rolled her eyes. “I’ll be expanding on deadly herbs and their versatility in harm and healing, if that’s of any motivation for you.” 

Mavis shifted shamefully at Levy’s side. She did enjoy Mira’s classes, but Levy’s private lessons were far more interesting. “I’ll have her back when expected, Mira,” Levy cut in, placing a hand on Mavis’ head.

“I’ll hold you to it.” The other sorceress gave her a warm smile, then beckoned to the group of girls behind her to follow along down the hall. 

Levy chuckled to herself and ruffled the young mage’s wet hair.

Thunder boomed through the keep’s halls, and Levy withdrew her bloody hand from the girl at her side. She looked out the window first to clear blue skies, and another crack came roaring through. The sorceress opened her mouth to speak to her apprentice, but when looking down upon her found lifeless pools of green staring back. Through her. A cloak of red spread over her, pooling at her bare feet, and volatile magic crackled in sickly green sparks around her.

“I wanted to be just like you.” The third explosion collapsed the halls, and the floor fell out from under them. “I always will.”

–

In the distance, thunder rumbled, long and rolling. Levy lurched awake so violently she choked on her own breath, and fell into a coughing fit.  She sat up abruptly, cupping her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound, when two hands pressed on her shoulders. Her eyes darted aimlessly before finding the yellow irises of her Witcher.

“Eyes on me, Lev,” Gajeel’s voice rumbled, calmly, through the chaos of her waking mind. “Breathe,” he commanded, and his grip squeezed once on her shoulders.

She held eye contact with him, trying to swallow down her choking breaths, and he waited patiently with her. The proximity made his heart stutter, but he couldn’t spare the composure to think about it. Levy clasped her collar, trying to anchor herself, and after several moments the fits ceased.

“Good. In through the nose, out through the mouth,” he instructed, calling back on his own daily meditations. She followed without protest until he could hear her heartbeat slow. 

The sun had barely started to rise, and cast a stark red glow through the trees upon their camp. It could not have been a more ominous light to wake up from a nightmare into. “I’m fine, thank you,” she raised her hand and placed it against his chest, a form of dismissal but to him a jolt. He released her with control, and leaned back onto his heels.

“Still can’t sleep, eh?”

Levy laughed dryly and swallowed hard, “You could say that,” she answered, “Just, dreams that don’t make any sense.” She brushed herself off, trying to smooth the sleep out of her clothes. Twice now she had embarrassed herself with him.

“I find most of ‘em make sense if you turn ‘em the right way,” he remarked vaguely as he eyed her up and down. He knew that better than she could understand. “Ya want to talk about it? Ain’t been right since last night.” Levy shot him a look that was a pretty immediate ‘no,’ with a tingle of uneasiness that he wasn’t going to just pretend her outbursts at the windmill or just now didn’t happen. “Got anythin’ to do with this Mavis?” Color drained from her face all over again. “You were mumblin’ it in your sleep,” he offered, hoping it would land a bit softer than rehashing their night.

She groaned and ran her fingers through her blue hair, the color shifting with the movement of her hands back to an unassuming brown. Her palms dragged down and round her neck, then pushed up her cheeks to rub at her aching temples. “Can we talk about this on horseback, please. I’m stiffer than a shot of dwarven spirits.”

Gajeel blinked, then laughed gruffly while hauling himself up onto his feet. “Deal. Rain’s gonna start at some point and we got a ways to our destination, yet.”

Another groan. “Rain. Stellar.”

–

“It makes no sense,” Levy started, clutching the rim of the saddle behind her.  They’d been riding for somewhere close to an hour already, and moisture most certainly hung in the air as dark clouds moved in faster than they were cantering. “She’d never even been to Aretuza. Mavis came into my life before everything fell apart,” there was a faraway tone in her voice, like still half trying to make sense of the imagery. “Though not for lack of trying on everyone else’s part…but that place would have ruined her.”

Gajeel took a moment to consider his words, which by all accounts was not something he cared to do often. But this was significant to her. “There was someone at the party that looked like her.” Not a question.

Levy deflated, and her face heated in embarrassment. “Yes.”

“But she’s dead?”

Her breathing stilled, and there was a long beat before she answered again. “Has been for a while. But for that dance, however long it was, she was alive. She loved to dance. Terrible at it, but she was a child then. She would have been,” another weighted pause as she started to count, but gave up, “well, it doesn't matter. Facts are what they are. And I lost my head for a moment. It won't happen again.” There was an edge to her words that told him she was done talking about this. Again. “We soldier on, Gajeel.”

For now, he would have to leave it be, whether he wanted to or not.

The trail they followed forked in front of them, with the most direct route bringing them through Alness, and the path to the left along the forest edge before curving south again.  It had been some time since he came out this way, but the way was still familiar. The less direct route would avoid the bustle of town, and still get them to their destination with little time lost. 

Wordlessly, he pulled them left and continued in relative silence as thunder rumbled again and rain started to sprinkle. However, Levy was the one to speak again, voice low with warning. “Gajeel, smoke.”

The Witcher grunted, narrowing his eyes at the black wisp rising from somewhere just past the treeline. “I see it,” he replied, giving a quick nudge to the horse to bring them to a trot. All they needed to do was look busy, and keep moving. There’s a lot of trouble that can be avoided by not lingering.

But, not this trouble, it would seem.

Four men with weapons drawn emerged from the brush, and if his hearing served him right a fifth hung back out of view. Gajeel pulled back on the reins to slow down, scanning over the four of them with a look that he hoped would give them second thoughts. Subtly, he leaned forward leading with his right shoulder, where the two hilts of his swords rose up. With his eyesight, he saw one of them look at his weapons, hesitating for just a second, before moving then to the small undeniably feminine figure in the saddle behind him. 

Gajeel bristled more than he expected to when they all exchanged looks, speaking unintelligibly to each other. He angled the horse in a way it would look like he intended to swing wide, and one of the smaller men took a quick step in the same direction, sealing their intentions.

Instinctive excitement bubbled in his chest at an opportunity to test his armor at last. His breathing slowed, and a predator’s calm settled over him. “Stay on the horse. Do nothing to draw attention,” he said in a low voice, angling forward to dismount.

“I can help, Gajeel, you’re outnumbered,” Levy whispered back, pulling her hood more securely over her head.

“Ain’t gonna say it again. This’ll only take a minute,” Gajeel heaved himself off the horse, landing with a heavy thud in the dirt. “Keep. Your. Cover,” he growled, not once taking his eyes off the bandits in the road. “Ride when they come at you.”

Levy didn’t have a chance to ask what he meant before the Witcher took off in a full sprint for the trees, away from the group, and several things happened at once. By the faces of the four men in the open, they were also taken entirely by surprise. One of them, wielding a mace, took only a second of hesitation before he shouted in protest, and took off in pursuit. The remaining three looked to Levy, stricken suddenly with expressions that screamed ‘opportunity.’

“Hells, Gajeel!” she hissed, scooting forward in the saddle to take hold of the reins and give a hard tug and a swift kick.  The horse took off in a wide arc to put distance between her and the immediate threat and try to keep eyes on Gajeel.

But he barged, unhindered, through the underbrush, and disappeared swiftly from view.  Unaware of the fifth member, it appeared to Levy that he just left the scene entirely, but despite how little they knew one another it seemed unlikely he would run from a fight. 

At the same moment the man with the mace caught up to the treeline, Gajeel came back into view to meet him, dragging a small man with a bow by the face. The Witcher effortlessly lifted his captive up in front of him, ‘aiming’ him at the assailant, as an arcane blast of force launched the archer forward. Two bodies cracked together and crumpled into the dirt, but Gajeel did not stop.

Levy didn’t have the time to track what he would do next as he barrelled forward, forced to keep her attention on the men that had their sights on her.  She could easily have ridden off and truly gone a safe distance, but she had no desire to be so useless, and would need to stick with evasive maneuvers while keeping close.

“That’s right sweetheart, stay right there!” one of them sneered, and she felt her skin prickle.

If I fry all three of you it won’t matter if I break my cover.  Try it, ape, she thought, feeling her fingertips tingle. 

The mage would find no use for her magic today, as Gajeel commanded their attention instead, with no room for indecision. “Eyes on me!” The words may have been enough, but he punctuated them with three brutal cracks of his sword fist against his chest before brandishing the black steel sword at his side. The Witcher was the embodiment of brutality, and as he rushed forward the thrill of violence surged through every vein, spurred even more by the flash of regret from the remaining three bandits. 

Too late to back out now; he made it more than obvious they were dealing with a Witcher. And not just any, but Black Steel.  It was time for them to get an intimate view at the craftsmanship that earned him that name. 

They made a paltry attempt to ready themselves for the one-man onslaught, the bolder of the three lurching forward with a shortsword swing.

Let’s see how good your work is, Salamander, he thought, skidding to a halt as he thrust up his right forearm to take the hit. The blade clashed into the scales of his bracers, and went no further. Gajeel barked a thrilled laugh, glancing at the man from below his arm, as his free hand shot forward to unleash a blast of fire into the bandit’s face.

The agonized scream barely rose from his throat before Gajeel sidestepped around him, and with one spin he arced his steel into the two remaining men at once. In a matter of seconds, all that remained was hiss of his fire under steadier rainfall, and Gajeel was left feeling…wholly dissatisfied.

He huffed, swinging his steel to the side hard enough to throw off the majority of the blood. The sound of hoofbeats approached, and he turned to meet Levy as she came closer.  He watched her sweep her eyes over him once, and he found himself straightening slightly under her scrutiny.  “Having fun, are you?” she asked, crossing her arms and surveying their surroundings while trying to avoid looking at any of the bodies too long.

Gajeel flashed his teeth at her, “I would, if they were worth–”

Levy’s face twisted in panicked urgency, her eyes locking onto something beyond them, but all the warning she could manage was to shout his name.

White pain blasted from the edge of the Witcher’s vision, followed immediately by the scream of a horse.

[neen-writes]

Reblogging this to bump up the story again while I work on the next chapter!

[neen-writes]

Motivation came out of goddamn nowhere and I'm finally working on chapter 9 of Silver for Monsters 🙌 I am flying through the start of it because of reasons and here's hoping I can keep the steam for the rest.

[working-dreamer]

Real talk: how long do you take posting chapters on fanfic? Cause part of me is like “oh it’ll be fine if I take a couple months cause life- out of all people AO3 understands.”

But then I wonder if I severely overestimate the attention span of current fans in the wake of instant gratification and consumerism.

My fandom brothers! Doth ye still wait years for a fic chapter update? Is there hope for a long winded scribe?

[gender-kenvy]

@neen-writes had an interesting experience relevant to this!

(as for me I try to go weekly but also at my own pace bc this is a hobby and if I burn myself out or make it stressful, it stops being fun and I quit writing for 12 years again xo)

[neen-writes]

Ohai yeah! I updated a fic I hadn't touched in 5 years on a whim. It's tough because the majority of the people who were following it initially are all gone, so there isn't much engagement with it(though it has found a handful of readers who enjoy it still!) However. I still find a lot of enjoyment with writing, but even when I was writing regularly I have really sporadic updates.

As a reader there really wouldn't be anything better for me than an old fic suddenly updating tho!

[riveluart]

My favorite fairy

[stesierra]

If you are hesitant to comment on AO3 because it's just fanfic and it probably doesn't matter to the writers, know that I got a one word comment ("Beautiful") on a fic nobody ever has bothered reading before and it made my night. Merry Christmas to me! Seriously, though, comments feel so good to writers! Please feed us! We're hungry!

[mj-irl]

It makes my day!! I love it, no matter how old the fic is comments are welcome and appreciated! 💛💛💛

[voxofthevoid]

Some of you would not survive waiting months to years for a WIP to update.

Look at me, listen to me: A couple of months is way too early to think a fic is abandoned or dead. A year is often too early. Internalize this.

[tea-earlgrey]

source

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Ch. 8 "Ghosts"

Pairing: Gajeel/Levy

Series: Fairy Tail, Witcher AU

Notes: Finally found the motivation to finish this chapter! It's a bit transitional, a bit tense, I'm hoping to get into some juicier stuff in the next chapter. Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

--

“Is it true what the folk say? That Witchers are emotionless?”

A small, half-dead fire cast weak light on the Witcher and the sorceress. He’d set it, and maintained it long enough to roast the small rabbit he shot shortly after setting camp. It was a meager meal, but they’d both brought enough supplemental vittles to make it a worthwhile meal.

Gajeel grimaced at the broad question, with so little nuance. He leveled a disappointed stare at her, arching a single brow, “Tell me you’re not so thick.”

She raised her hands in surrender with a dry laugh. “I’m joking. I have eyes, you know,” she offered. “Curious where the rumor comes from though.” They had spoken briefly about what he was when they’d first met. It felt like an age, now, since that night in her old home when she was patching up his wounds from the Fiend. When she thought that was to be the one and only time that she would ever meet and interact with the Witcher. It felt more valuable, then, to try and eke out whatever information she could get on Witchers if she was to never meet one again.

It was amusing, in retrospect, how ignorant the two of them were that night to everything they would experience in the coming days. When fate would draw the two unlikely allies together not once, twice, but three times. It started to feel like some sort of cosmic affront to do anything but travel together. Which led her to wonder what that would mean for them when she did find Erza. Would the two of them go their separate ways then? Levy and her compatriots, surely, would have no shortage of work to do when she found out whatever Erza had to impart upon them. None of which had to do with Gajeel. 

Levy had limited knowledge on Witchers, but she did know that they notoriously did not involve themselves in the matters of men. Certainly not kings. Hunters for hire, that was their purpose, and they had yet to make any qualms with that designation.

Gajeel showed little amusement or enthusiasm towards entertaining her line of conversation.  Especially given where they left off just a short time before settling down for the night. He’d grown more than accustomed to her composure, at times so steadfast that she readily humbled him into his own. Levy, in the short time he knew her, held her nerve. In the face of Temerian soldiers and Fiends in the dark, she stood steady. Yet this night, looking into a crowd of dancers, the mere possibility she saw someone she believed dead drove her to near madness.  The look in her eyes before almost calling out to the crowd was unrecognizable. Foreign.

Still, it was clear even to him that she was just trying to fill the silence, and he found himself with much more tolerance for her than he expected. If tolerance was even the word for it. Did tolerance feel like the overwhelming desire for her to talk to him?

He cleaned off the last bit of meat from a femur, and swiped the back of his hand at the grease on his mouth. “Same place they all come from. Shite storytellers with an agenda. Witchers were respected until they weren’t, and you know the damage the right people can do with ignorant townsfolk and a good motive.” There was no real bitterness or displeasure in his tone as much as there was boredom. It was a tired tale and it made no difference to him what people thought. If Witchers took the time to give a shit about the opinions of the masses, they’d never do anything else. “We gotta keep ourselves in check in this line o’ work anyway. Focused, disciplined, all that. It’s an easy image to keep.”

Levy cocked her head, leaning back against a tree. “It’s clearly untrue, why let them believe it?” 

Gajeel shrugged, “Why not? It’s good for business, and we get paid either way,” he flicked a cleaned bone off into the shrubs. “If you’re necessary, good at what you do, and feared, it tends to work in your favor.” With a long stick, he pushed around the charred logs in the fire, working to smother the remaining embers.  It was risky enough to set a fire, but they needed to eat, and if he was being honest, he wouldn’t have protested a little something to get his blood pumping.

The sorceress knit her brows together, “I have a sneaking suspicion that really only works if you’re a man.”

“It does. Good news for me,” he flashed a sly grin at her, which she did not return outright, but the twinkle was in her eye regardless. That should not have felt like as much of a victory as it did. “Though the stories ain’t stingy with how much not being a man works for you sorceresses,” Gajeel paused to puff out his chest a little and tilt up his chin, “Political power, wealth, positions of esteem.” There’s mockery in his tone coming from someone that had absolutely no regard for any of these things. Money he needed, sure, for gear and the day to day. But wealth? Nothing but problems.

Levy barked a laugh that lacked any shred of warmth. Ah, that was far less satisfying. “Oh yes, how mighty we are,” she sneered, adjusting the hood around her neck. “When men fear one another, they have an odd habit of turning it into respect or obedience. Oh but when men fear women, particularly those they cannot grasp and control when fires ignite in their gluttonous, round bellies…” She held his stare then, the dying firelight dancing across her features. He thought, suddenly, of when he first met her and the way her conjured fire illuminated her when facing the Fiend. How his immediate thought, before he controlled himself, was how terrifyingly beautiful she was. And how that clashed with what she was telling him now.

Half of the Lodge’s identity was their beauty. In fact, it had been an intentional representation, because magic and swords were not half as effective at gaining favor as desire. Part of their development as mages, a reward as it had once been called, was the ability to alter their appearances. If one had the chance to make themselves beautiful and young with a wave of their hand for the rest of their lives, who would pass the opportunity?

In their prime, their alliances wanted both their favor and their company in equal measure. The latter they could often dangle without ever having to follow through, though that wasn’t to say there hadn’t been sorceresses that readily wielded that weapon whenever the benefit arose. Vanity was a trademark of the Lodge, and they had no reason to hide it. Everything was a competition, least of all how many powerful men each had wrapped around their pinky.

The truth of the matter was the Lodge as a whole got cocky. Regardless if there were those of them who preferred more subtle, careful approaches, they were still a singular body in the eyes of kings. The fall was swift, brutal, and bloody. Now she lived in hiding, on the run, with all her relationships strained or burned.

“Well,” she continued, gesturing down at herself, “The story writes itself in living color.” Levy stared Gajeel down a moment longer, then sighed and looked off to the side. She was bitter, how could she not be? She crossed her arms, settled back into the tree best she could, and shut her eyes, “We should get some sleep.”

That was that, and any chance Gajeel had of pushing the issue, or any others burning in his mind was gone. He waited at least another hour to sleep, ensuring the fire was out entirely and their surroundings remained quiet. He told himself that was the only reason he stayed up, but his attention was split between their surroundings and the slow breaths of the demure mage. 

Gajeel wasn’t a curious man by nature. He did not linger, he did not dwell. He killed his targets, collected his reward, and moved on. But this situation he found himself in, somehow willingly, was against everything he thought himself to be. He wanted to know more about Levy, he wanted to help her.

A rustle in the brush coiled every muscle in his body, and his eyes flicked from her to motion where the shrubs cleared. A rabbit ran, the shadowed figure of some bird of prey trailing behind. He relaxed, and only then did he realize he had reflexively angled himself closer to her.

Gajeel wanted to protect her.

Those thoughts sat like stones in his chest. Dangerous, heavy stones. But even so, for the first time in the last few weeks, the Witcher’s sleep was dreamless, and the tug in his chest had gone still.

–

“What if they don’t like me, though?” green, expectant eyes turned up to the sorceress who was only a few inches taller than her. Two figures walked down familiarly cold, dreary halls, the shorter carrying a small stack of books.  Levy walked with a practiced poise, the straightness in her spine giving away some indication of a higher position.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” That was her voice, Levy’s voice, but it didn’t come from her. In fact, it was as thought she was watching herself from the outside. “Even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re the most talented prospect Aretuza has seen in an age.”

The younger pouted in response, “But I don’t want to just be a talent. You’re so many things, Levy. I want to be many things too.”

“Likable, among those?” Levy raised her brows and gave a warm, knowing smile to the young mage. “You have more to your advantage than you give yourself credit for.  Don’t let the jealousy of your year-mates distract you.”

They turned a corner, coming face to face with another woman dressed like Levy and with similarly perfect posture. A tail of near-white hair was braided over her right shoulder, hanging in front, tied with a black ribbon. All the sorceresses, even the sorcerers, out of Aretuza boasted fair looks, but Mirajane was nothing short of a vision. Devastatingly beautiful, she had spared no effort when given the opportunity to magically alter her appearance. It was as though she looked at every possible asset she could bestow upon herself, and said ‘yes, all.’

“Levy, Mavis,” she nodded to them both by way of greeting. Behind her, a small group of girls the same age as the younger mage with Levy suddenly found the walls and the floors more interesting. “Will you be joining class this evening, or will your lessons take up all your valuable time?” A sly, playfully accusatory look slid over to Levy, who merely rolled her eyes. “I’ll be expanding on deadly herbs and their versatility in harm and healing, if that’s of any motivation for you.” 

Mavis shifted shamefully at Levy’s side. She did enjoy Mira’s classes, but Levy’s private lessons were far more interesting. “I’ll have her back when expected, Mira,” Levy cut in, placing a hand on Mavis’ head.

“I’ll hold you to it.” The other sorceress gave her a warm smile, then beckoned to the group of girls behind her to follow along down the hall. 

Levy chuckled to herself and ruffled the young mage’s wet hair.

Thunder boomed through the keep’s halls, and Levy withdrew her bloody hand from the girl at her side. She looked out the window first to clear blue skies, and another crack came roaring through. The sorceress opened her mouth to speak to her apprentice, but when looking down upon her found lifeless pools of green staring back. Through her. A cloak of red spread over her, pooling at her bare feet, and volatile magic crackled in sickly green sparks around her.

“I wanted to be just like you.” The third explosion collapsed the halls, and the floor fell out from under them. “I always will.”

–

In the distance, thunder rumbled, long and rolling. Levy lurched awake so violently she choked on her own breath, and fell into a coughing fit.  She sat up abruptly, cupping her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound, when two hands pressed on her shoulders. Her eyes darted aimlessly before finding the yellow irises of her Witcher.

“Eyes on me, Lev,” Gajeel’s voice rumbled, calmly, through the chaos of her waking mind. “Breathe,” he commanded, and his grip squeezed once on her shoulders.

She held eye contact with him, trying to swallow down her choking breaths, and he waited patiently with her. The proximity made his heart stutter, but he couldn’t spare the composure to think about it. Levy clasped her collar, trying to anchor herself, and after several moments the fits ceased.

“Good. In through the nose, out through the mouth,” he instructed, calling back on his own daily meditations. She followed without protest until he could hear her heartbeat slow. 

The sun had barely started to rise, and cast a stark red glow through the trees upon their camp. It could not have been a more ominous light to wake up from a nightmare into. “I’m fine, thank you,” she raised her hand and placed it against his chest, a form of dismissal but to him a jolt. He released her with control, and leaned back onto his heels.

“Still can’t sleep, eh?”

Levy laughed dryly and swallowed hard, “You could say that,” she answered, “Just, dreams that don’t make any sense.” She brushed herself off, trying to smooth the sleep out of her clothes. Twice now she had embarrassed herself with him.

“I find most of ‘em make sense if you turn ‘em the right way,” he remarked vaguely as he eyed her up and down. He knew that better than she could understand. “Ya want to talk about it? Ain’t been right since last night.” Levy shot him a look that was a pretty immediate ‘no,’ with a tingle of uneasiness that he wasn’t going to just pretend her outbursts at the windmill or just now didn’t happen. “Got anythin’ to do with this Mavis?” Color drained from her face all over again. “You were mumblin’ it in your sleep,” he offered, hoping it would land a bit softer than rehashing their night.

She groaned and ran her fingers through her blue hair, the color shifting with the movement of her hands back to an unassuming brown. Her palms dragged down and round her neck, then pushed up her cheeks to rub at her aching temples. “Can we talk about this on horseback, please. I’m stiffer than a shot of dwarven spirits.”

Gajeel blinked, then laughed gruffly while hauling himself up onto his feet. “Deal. Rain’s gonna start at some point and we got a ways to our destination, yet.”

Another groan. “Rain. Stellar.”

–

“It makes no sense,” Levy started, clutching the rim of the saddle behind her.  They’d been riding for somewhere close to an hour already, and moisture most certainly hung in the air as dark clouds moved in faster than they were cantering. “She’d never even been to Aretuza. Mavis came into my life before everything fell apart,” there was a faraway tone in her voice, like still half trying to make sense of the imagery. “Though not for lack of trying on everyone else’s part…but that place would have ruined her.”

Gajeel took a moment to consider his words, which by all accounts was not something he cared to do often. But this was significant to her. “There was someone at the party that looked like her.” Not a question.

Levy deflated, and her face heated in embarrassment. “Yes.”

“But she’s dead?”

Her breathing stilled, and there was a long beat before she answered again. “Has been for a while. But for that dance, however long it was, she was alive. She loved to dance. Terrible at it, but she was a child then. She would have been,” another weighted pause as she started to count, but gave up, “well, it doesn't matter. Facts are what they are. And I lost my head for a moment. It won't happen again.” There was an edge to her words that told him she was done talking about this. Again. “We soldier on, Gajeel.”

For now, he would have to leave it be, whether he wanted to or not.

The trail they followed forked in front of them, with the most direct route bringing them through Alness, and the path to the left along the forest edge before curving south again.  It had been some time since he came out this way, but the way was still familiar. The less direct route would avoid the bustle of town, and still get them to their destination with little time lost. 

Wordlessly, he pulled them left and continued in relative silence as thunder rumbled again and rain started to sprinkle. However, Levy was the one to speak again, voice low with warning. “Gajeel, smoke.”

The Witcher grunted, narrowing his eyes at the black wisp rising from somewhere just past the treeline. “I see it,” he replied, giving a quick nudge to the horse to bring them to a trot. All they needed to do was look busy, and keep moving. There’s a lot of trouble that can be avoided by not lingering.

But, not this trouble, it would seem.

Four men with weapons drawn emerged from the brush, and if his hearing served him right a fifth hung back out of view. Gajeel pulled back on the reins to slow down, scanning over the four of them with a look that he hoped would give them second thoughts. Subtly, he leaned forward leading with his right shoulder, where the two hilts of his swords rose up. With his eyesight, he saw one of them look at his weapons, hesitating for just a second, before moving then to the small undeniably feminine figure in the saddle behind him. 

Gajeel bristled more than he expected to when they all exchanged looks, speaking unintelligibly to each other. He angled the horse in a way it would look like he intended to swing wide, and one of the smaller men took a quick step in the same direction, sealing their intentions.

Instinctive excitement bubbled in his chest at an opportunity to test his armor at last. His breathing slowed, and a predator’s calm settled over him. “Stay on the horse. Do nothing to draw attention,” he said in a low voice, angling forward to dismount.

“I can help, Gajeel, you’re outnumbered,” Levy whispered back, pulling her hood more securely over her head.

“Ain’t gonna say it again. This’ll only take a minute,” Gajeel heaved himself off the horse, landing with a heavy thud in the dirt. “Keep. Your. Cover,” he growled, not once taking his eyes off the bandits in the road. “Ride when they come at you.”

Levy didn’t have a chance to ask what he meant before the Witcher took off in a full sprint for the trees, away from the group, and several things happened at once. By the faces of the four men in the open, they were also taken entirely by surprise. One of them, wielding a mace, took only a second of hesitation before he shouted in protest, and took off in pursuit. The remaining three looked to Levy, stricken suddenly with expressions that screamed ‘opportunity.’

“Hells, Gajeel!” she hissed, scooting forward in the saddle to take hold of the reins and give a hard tug and a swift kick.  The horse took off in a wide arc to put distance between her and the immediate threat and try to keep eyes on Gajeel.

But he barged, unhindered, through the underbrush, and disappeared swiftly from view.  Unaware of the fifth member, it appeared to Levy that he just left the scene entirely, but despite how little they knew one another it seemed unlikely he would run from a fight. 

At the same moment the man with the mace caught up to the treeline, Gajeel came back into view to meet him, dragging a small man with a bow by the face. The Witcher effortlessly lifted his captive up in front of him, ‘aiming’ him at the assailant, as an arcane blast of force launched the archer forward. Two bodies cracked together and crumpled into the dirt, but Gajeel did not stop.

Levy didn’t have the time to track what he would do next as he barrelled forward, forced to keep her attention on the men that had their sights on her.  She could easily have ridden off and truly gone a safe distance, but she had no desire to be so useless, and would need to stick with evasive maneuvers while keeping close.

“That’s right sweetheart, stay right there!” one of them sneered, and she felt her skin prickle.

If I fry all three of you it won’t matter if I break my cover.  Try it, ape, she thought, feeling her fingertips tingle. 

The mage would find no use for her magic today, as Gajeel commanded their attention instead, with no room for indecision. “Eyes on me!” The words may have been enough, but he punctuated them with three brutal cracks of his sword fist against his chest before brandishing the black steel sword at his side. The Witcher was the embodiment of brutality, and as he rushed forward the thrill of violence surged through every vein, spurred even more by the flash of regret from the remaining three bandits. 

Too late to back out now; he made it more than obvious they were dealing with a Witcher. And not just any, but Black Steel.  It was time for them to get an intimate view at the craftsmanship that earned him that name. 

They made a paltry attempt to ready themselves for the one-man onslaught, the bolder of the three lurching forward with a shortsword swing.

Let’s see how good your work is, Salamander, he thought, skidding to a halt as he thrust up his right forearm to take the hit. The blade clashed into the scales of his bracers, and went no further. Gajeel barked a thrilled laugh, glancing at the man from below his arm, as his free hand shot forward to unleash a blast of fire into the bandit’s face.

The agonized scream barely rose from his throat before Gajeel sidestepped around him, and with one spin he arced his steel into the two remaining men at once. In a matter of seconds, all that remained was hiss of his fire under steadier rainfall, and Gajeel was left feeling…wholly dissatisfied.

He huffed, swinging his steel to the side hard enough to throw off the majority of the blood. The sound of hoofbeats approached, and he turned to meet Levy as she came closer.  He watched her sweep her eyes over him once, and he found himself straightening slightly under her scrutiny.  “Having fun, are you?” she asked, crossing her arms and surveying their surroundings while trying to avoid looking at any of the bodies too long.

Gajeel flashed his teeth at her, “I would, if they were worth–”

Levy’s face twisted in panicked urgency, her eyes locking onto something beyond them, but all the warning she could manage was to shout his name.

White pain blasted from the edge of the Witcher’s vision, followed immediately by the scream of a horse.

[mavikiu]

OH SHIT! I kept thinking about how Gajevy Witcher AU would be such a good fit, I need to read the whole thing later when I have time!!!!

Hehe, ty for making my workday a little less annoying :3

[neen-writes]

Welcome to the ride, and I hope you enjoy!! 😁

[neen-writes]

Silver for Monsters -- Ch. 8 "Ghosts"

Pairing: Gajeel/Levy

Series: Fairy Tail, Witcher AU

Notes: Finally found the motivation to finish this chapter! It's a bit transitional, a bit tense, I'm hoping to get into some juicier stuff in the next chapter. Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

--

“Is it true what the folk say? That Witchers are emotionless?”

A small, half-dead fire cast weak light on the Witcher and the sorceress. He’d set it, and maintained it long enough to roast the small rabbit he shot shortly after setting camp. It was a meager meal, but they’d both brought enough supplemental vittles to make it a worthwhile meal.

Gajeel grimaced at the broad question, with so little nuance. He leveled a disappointed stare at her, arching a single brow, “Tell me you’re not so thick.”

She raised her hands in surrender with a dry laugh. “I’m joking. I have eyes, you know,” she offered. “Curious where the rumor comes from though.” They had spoken briefly about what he was when they’d first met. It felt like an age, now, since that night in her old home when she was patching up his wounds from the Fiend. When she thought that was to be the one and only time that she would ever meet and interact with the Witcher. It felt more valuable, then, to try and eke out whatever information she could get on Witchers if she was to never meet one again.

It was amusing, in retrospect, how ignorant the two of them were that night to everything they would experience in the coming days. When fate would draw the two unlikely allies together not once, twice, but three times. It started to feel like some sort of cosmic affront to do anything but travel together. Which led her to wonder what that would mean for them when she did find Erza. Would the two of them go their separate ways then? Levy and her compatriots, surely, would have no shortage of work to do when she found out whatever Erza had to impart upon them. None of which had to do with Gajeel. 

Levy had limited knowledge on Witchers, but she did know that they notoriously did not involve themselves in the matters of men. Certainly not kings. Hunters for hire, that was their purpose, and they had yet to make any qualms with that designation.

Gajeel showed little amusement or enthusiasm towards entertaining her line of conversation.  Especially given where they left off just a short time before settling down for the night. He’d grown more than accustomed to her composure, at times so steadfast that she readily humbled him into his own. Levy, in the short time he knew her, held her nerve. In the face of Temerian soldiers and Fiends in the dark, she stood steady. Yet this night, looking into a crowd of dancers, the mere possibility she saw someone she believed dead drove her to near madness.  The look in her eyes before almost calling out to the crowd was unrecognizable. Foreign.

Still, it was clear even to him that she was just trying to fill the silence, and he found himself with much more tolerance for her than he expected. If tolerance was even the word for it. Did tolerance feel like the overwhelming desire for her to talk to him?

He cleaned off the last bit of meat from a femur, and swiped the back of his hand at the grease on his mouth. “Same place they all come from. Shite storytellers with an agenda. Witchers were respected until they weren’t, and you know the damage the right people can do with ignorant townsfolk and a good motive.” There was no real bitterness or displeasure in his tone as much as there was boredom. It was a tired tale and it made no difference to him what people thought. If Witchers took the time to give a shit about the opinions of the masses, they’d never do anything else. “We gotta keep ourselves in check in this line o’ work anyway. Focused, disciplined, all that. It’s an easy image to keep.”

Levy cocked her head, leaning back against a tree. “It’s clearly untrue, why let them believe it?” 

Gajeel shrugged, “Why not? It’s good for business, and we get paid either way,” he flicked a cleaned bone off into the shrubs. “If you’re necessary, good at what you do, and feared, it tends to work in your favor.” With a long stick, he pushed around the charred logs in the fire, working to smother the remaining embers.  It was risky enough to set a fire, but they needed to eat, and if he was being honest, he wouldn’t have protested a little something to get his blood pumping.

The sorceress knit her brows together, “I have a sneaking suspicion that really only works if you’re a man.”

“It does. Good news for me,” he flashed a sly grin at her, which she did not return outright, but the twinkle was in her eye regardless. That should not have felt like as much of a victory as it did. “Though the stories ain’t stingy with how much not being a man works for you sorceresses,” Gajeel paused to puff out his chest a little and tilt up his chin, “Political power, wealth, positions of esteem.” There’s mockery in his tone coming from someone that had absolutely no regard for any of these things. Money he needed, sure, for gear and the day to day. But wealth? Nothing but problems.

Levy barked a laugh that lacked any shred of warmth. Ah, that was far less satisfying. “Oh yes, how mighty we are,” she sneered, adjusting the hood around her neck. “When men fear one another, they have an odd habit of turning it into respect or obedience. Oh but when men fear women, particularly those they cannot grasp and control when fires ignite in their gluttonous, round bellies…” She held his stare then, the dying firelight dancing across her features. He thought, suddenly, of when he first met her and the way her conjured fire illuminated her when facing the Fiend. How his immediate thought, before he controlled himself, was how terrifyingly beautiful she was. And how that clashed with what she was telling him now.

Half of the Lodge’s identity was their beauty. In fact, it had been an intentional representation, because magic and swords were not half as effective at gaining favor as desire. Part of their development as mages, a reward as it had once been called, was the ability to alter their appearances. If one had the chance to make themselves beautiful and young with a wave of their hand for the rest of their lives, who would pass the opportunity?

In their prime, their alliances wanted both their favor and their company in equal measure. The latter they could often dangle without ever having to follow through, though that wasn’t to say there hadn’t been sorceresses that readily wielded that weapon whenever the benefit arose. Vanity was a trademark of the Lodge, and they had no reason to hide it. Everything was a competition, least of all how many powerful men each had wrapped around their pinky.

The truth of the matter was the Lodge as a whole got cocky. Regardless if there were those of them who preferred more subtle, careful approaches, they were still a singular body in the eyes of kings. The fall was swift, brutal, and bloody. Now she lived in hiding, on the run, with all her relationships strained or burned.

“Well,” she continued, gesturing down at herself, “The story writes itself in living color.” Levy stared Gajeel down a moment longer, then sighed and looked off to the side. She was bitter, how could she not be? She crossed her arms, settled back into the tree best she could, and shut her eyes, “We should get some sleep.”

That was that, and any chance Gajeel had of pushing the issue, or any others burning in his mind was gone. He waited at least another hour to sleep, ensuring the fire was out entirely and their surroundings remained quiet. He told himself that was the only reason he stayed up, but his attention was split between their surroundings and the slow breaths of the demure mage. 

Gajeel wasn’t a curious man by nature. He did not linger, he did not dwell. He killed his targets, collected his reward, and moved on. But this situation he found himself in, somehow willingly, was against everything he thought himself to be. He wanted to know more about Levy, he wanted to help her.

A rustle in the brush coiled every muscle in his body, and his eyes flicked from her to motion where the shrubs cleared. A rabbit ran, the shadowed figure of some bird of prey trailing behind. He relaxed, and only then did he realize he had reflexively angled himself closer to her.

Gajeel wanted to protect her.

Those thoughts sat like stones in his chest. Dangerous, heavy stones. But even so, for the first time in the last few weeks, the Witcher’s sleep was dreamless, and the tug in his chest had gone still.

–

“What if they don’t like me, though?” green, expectant eyes turned up to the sorceress who was only a few inches taller than her. Two figures walked down familiarly cold, dreary halls, the shorter carrying a small stack of books.  Levy walked with a practiced poise, the straightness in her spine giving away some indication of a higher position.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” That was her voice, Levy’s voice, but it didn’t come from her. In fact, it was as thought she was watching herself from the outside. “Even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re the most talented prospect Aretuza has seen in an age.”

The younger pouted in response, “But I don’t want to just be a talent. You’re so many things, Levy. I want to be many things too.”

“Likable, among those?” Levy raised her brows and gave a warm, knowing smile to the young mage. “You have more to your advantage than you give yourself credit for.  Don’t let the jealousy of your year-mates distract you.”

They turned a corner, coming face to face with another woman dressed like Levy and with similarly perfect posture. A tail of near-white hair was braided over her right shoulder, hanging in front, tied with a black ribbon. All the sorceresses, even the sorcerers, out of Aretuza boasted fair looks, but Mirajane was nothing short of a vision. Devastatingly beautiful, she had spared no effort when given the opportunity to magically alter her appearance. It was as though she looked at every possible asset she could bestow upon herself, and said ‘yes, all.’

“Levy, Mavis,” she nodded to them both by way of greeting. Behind her, a small group of girls the same age as the younger mage with Levy suddenly found the walls and the floors more interesting. “Will you be joining class this evening, or will your lessons take up all your valuable time?” A sly, playfully accusatory look slid over to Levy, who merely rolled her eyes. “I’ll be expanding on deadly herbs and their versatility in harm and healing, if that’s of any motivation for you.” 

Mavis shifted shamefully at Levy’s side. She did enjoy Mira’s classes, but Levy’s private lessons were far more interesting. “I’ll have her back when expected, Mira,” Levy cut in, placing a hand on Mavis’ head.

“I’ll hold you to it.” The other sorceress gave her a warm smile, then beckoned to the group of girls behind her to follow along down the hall. 

Levy chuckled to herself and ruffled the young mage’s wet hair.

Thunder boomed through the keep’s halls, and Levy withdrew her bloody hand from the girl at her side. She looked out the window first to clear blue skies, and another crack came roaring through. The sorceress opened her mouth to speak to her apprentice, but when looking down upon her found lifeless pools of green staring back. Through her. A cloak of red spread over her, pooling at her bare feet, and volatile magic crackled in sickly green sparks around her.

“I wanted to be just like you.” The third explosion collapsed the halls, and the floor fell out from under them. “I always will.”

–

In the distance, thunder rumbled, long and rolling. Levy lurched awake so violently she choked on her own breath, and fell into a coughing fit.  She sat up abruptly, cupping her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound, when two hands pressed on her shoulders. Her eyes darted aimlessly before finding the yellow irises of her Witcher.

“Eyes on me, Lev,” Gajeel’s voice rumbled, calmly, through the chaos of her waking mind. “Breathe,” he commanded, and his grip squeezed once on her shoulders.

She held eye contact with him, trying to swallow down her choking breaths, and he waited patiently with her. The proximity made his heart stutter, but he couldn’t spare the composure to think about it. Levy clasped her collar, trying to anchor herself, and after several moments the fits ceased.

“Good. In through the nose, out through the mouth,” he instructed, calling back on his own daily meditations. She followed without protest until he could hear her heartbeat slow. 

The sun had barely started to rise, and cast a stark red glow through the trees upon their camp. It could not have been a more ominous light to wake up from a nightmare into. “I’m fine, thank you,” she raised her hand and placed it against his chest, a form of dismissal but to him a jolt. He released her with control, and leaned back onto his heels.

“Still can’t sleep, eh?”

Levy laughed dryly and swallowed hard, “You could say that,” she answered, “Just, dreams that don’t make any sense.” She brushed herself off, trying to smooth the sleep out of her clothes. Twice now she had embarrassed herself with him.

“I find most of ‘em make sense if you turn ‘em the right way,” he remarked vaguely as he eyed her up and down. He knew that better than she could understand. “Ya want to talk about it? Ain’t been right since last night.” Levy shot him a look that was a pretty immediate ‘no,’ with a tingle of uneasiness that he wasn’t going to just pretend her outbursts at the windmill or just now didn’t happen. “Got anythin’ to do with this Mavis?” Color drained from her face all over again. “You were mumblin’ it in your sleep,” he offered, hoping it would land a bit softer than rehashing their night.

She groaned and ran her fingers through her blue hair, the color shifting with the movement of her hands back to an unassuming brown. Her palms dragged down and round her neck, then pushed up her cheeks to rub at her aching temples. “Can we talk about this on horseback, please. I’m stiffer than a shot of dwarven spirits.”

Gajeel blinked, then laughed gruffly while hauling himself up onto his feet. “Deal. Rain’s gonna start at some point and we got a ways to our destination, yet.”

Another groan. “Rain. Stellar.”

–

“It makes no sense,” Levy started, clutching the rim of the saddle behind her.  They’d been riding for somewhere close to an hour already, and moisture most certainly hung in the air as dark clouds moved in faster than they were cantering. “She’d never even been to Aretuza. Mavis came into my life before everything fell apart,” there was a faraway tone in her voice, like still half trying to make sense of the imagery. “Though not for lack of trying on everyone else’s part…but that place would have ruined her.”

Gajeel took a moment to consider his words, which by all accounts was not something he cared to do often. But this was significant to her. “There was someone at the party that looked like her.” Not a question.

Levy deflated, and her face heated in embarrassment. “Yes.”

“But she’s dead?”

Her breathing stilled, and there was a long beat before she answered again. “Has been for a while. But for that dance, however long it was, she was alive. She loved to dance. Terrible at it, but she was a child then. She would have been,” another weighted pause as she started to count, but gave up, “well, it doesn't matter. Facts are what they are. And I lost my head for a moment. It won't happen again.” There was an edge to her words that told him she was done talking about this. Again. “We soldier on, Gajeel.”

For now, he would have to leave it be, whether he wanted to or not.

The trail they followed forked in front of them, with the most direct route bringing them through Alness, and the path to the left along the forest edge before curving south again.  It had been some time since he came out this way, but the way was still familiar. The less direct route would avoid the bustle of town, and still get them to their destination with little time lost. 

Wordlessly, he pulled them left and continued in relative silence as thunder rumbled again and rain started to sprinkle. However, Levy was the one to speak again, voice low with warning. “Gajeel, smoke.”

The Witcher grunted, narrowing his eyes at the black wisp rising from somewhere just past the treeline. “I see it,” he replied, giving a quick nudge to the horse to bring them to a trot. All they needed to do was look busy, and keep moving. There’s a lot of trouble that can be avoided by not lingering.

But, not this trouble, it would seem.

Four men with weapons drawn emerged from the brush, and if his hearing served him right a fifth hung back out of view. Gajeel pulled back on the reins to slow down, scanning over the four of them with a look that he hoped would give them second thoughts. Subtly, he leaned forward leading with his right shoulder, where the two hilts of his swords rose up. With his eyesight, he saw one of them look at his weapons, hesitating for just a second, before moving then to the small undeniably feminine figure in the saddle behind him. 

Gajeel bristled more than he expected to when they all exchanged looks, speaking unintelligibly to each other. He angled the horse in a way it would look like he intended to swing wide, and one of the smaller men took a quick step in the same direction, sealing their intentions.

Instinctive excitement bubbled in his chest at an opportunity to test his armor at last. His breathing slowed, and a predator’s calm settled over him. “Stay on the horse. Do nothing to draw attention,” he said in a low voice, angling forward to dismount.

“I can help, Gajeel, you’re outnumbered,” Levy whispered back, pulling her hood more securely over her head.

“Ain’t gonna say it again. This’ll only take a minute,” Gajeel heaved himself off the horse, landing with a heavy thud in the dirt. “Keep. Your. Cover,” he growled, not once taking his eyes off the bandits in the road. “Ride when they come at you.”

Levy didn’t have a chance to ask what he meant before the Witcher took off in a full sprint for the trees, away from the group, and several things happened at once. By the faces of the four men in the open, they were also taken entirely by surprise. One of them, wielding a mace, took only a second of hesitation before he shouted in protest, and took off in pursuit. The remaining three looked to Levy, stricken suddenly with expressions that screamed ‘opportunity.’

“Hells, Gajeel!” she hissed, scooting forward in the saddle to take hold of the reins and give a hard tug and a swift kick.  The horse took off in a wide arc to put distance between her and the immediate threat and try to keep eyes on Gajeel.

But he barged, unhindered, through the underbrush, and disappeared swiftly from view.  Unaware of the fifth member, it appeared to Levy that he just left the scene entirely, but despite how little they knew one another it seemed unlikely he would run from a fight. 

At the same moment the man with the mace caught up to the treeline, Gajeel came back into view to meet him, dragging a small man with a bow by the face. The Witcher effortlessly lifted his captive up in front of him, ‘aiming’ him at the assailant, as an arcane blast of force launched the archer forward. Two bodies cracked together and crumpled into the dirt, but Gajeel did not stop.

Levy didn’t have the time to track what he would do next as he barrelled forward, forced to keep her attention on the men that had their sights on her.  She could easily have ridden off and truly gone a safe distance, but she had no desire to be so useless, and would need to stick with evasive maneuvers while keeping close.

“That’s right sweetheart, stay right there!” one of them sneered, and she felt her skin prickle.

If I fry all three of you it won’t matter if I break my cover.  Try it, ape, she thought, feeling her fingertips tingle. 

The mage would find no use for her magic today, as Gajeel commanded their attention instead, with no room for indecision. “Eyes on me!” The words may have been enough, but he punctuated them with three brutal cracks of his sword fist against his chest before brandishing the black steel sword at his side. The Witcher was the embodiment of brutality, and as he rushed forward the thrill of violence surged through every vein, spurred even more by the flash of regret from the remaining three bandits. 

Too late to back out now; he made it more than obvious they were dealing with a Witcher. And not just any, but Black Steel.  It was time for them to get an intimate view at the craftsmanship that earned him that name. 

They made a paltry attempt to ready themselves for the one-man onslaught, the bolder of the three lurching forward with a shortsword swing.

Let’s see how good your work is, Salamander, he thought, skidding to a halt as he thrust up his right forearm to take the hit. The blade clashed into the scales of his bracers, and went no further. Gajeel barked a thrilled laugh, glancing at the man from below his arm, as his free hand shot forward to unleash a blast of fire into the bandit’s face.

The agonized scream barely rose from his throat before Gajeel sidestepped around him, and with one spin he arced his steel into the two remaining men at once. In a matter of seconds, all that remained was hiss of his fire under steadier rainfall, and Gajeel was left feeling…wholly dissatisfied.

He huffed, swinging his steel to the side hard enough to throw off the majority of the blood. The sound of hoofbeats approached, and he turned to meet Levy as she came closer.  He watched her sweep her eyes over him once, and he found himself straightening slightly under her scrutiny.  “Having fun, are you?” she asked, crossing her arms and surveying their surroundings while trying to avoid looking at any of the bodies too long.

Gajeel flashed his teeth at her, “I would, if they were worth–”

Levy’s face twisted in panicked urgency, her eyes locking onto something beyond them, but all the warning she could manage was to shout his name.

White pain blasted from the edge of the Witcher’s vision, followed immediately by the scream of a horse.

[heretherebebookdragons]

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[neen-writes]

Hoping to dig back up some motivation to keep at silver for monsters and finish up the chapter i was working on, but boy howdy it just up and left. Trying to balance the urge to write with a challenging embroidery project and just being in a bit of a slump but I'll get there. I think.