Galaxies and Gay Romance

Raven's writeblr! 25, they/them. Urban Fantasy writer. Follows from @elvehnking and/or @sometimesraven

[ravenelliot]

DIGGING YOUR GRAVE

Whumptober 2021 Day 30 - DIGGING YOUR GRAVE Major Character Death | Left for Dead

Fandom: Critical Role C2 POV Character: Original Cleric Character Whumpee: OC & Mollymauk

Warnings: Major character death, mourning, grief

A young Cleric joined the Mighty Nein as they searched for their missing friends, determined to help them where she couldn't help her old friends. When Mollymauk falls, she can't take it.

Read on AO3

She'd only joined them out of curiosity and kindness. She saw a group of people torn apart, desperately in need of help -- and they'd lost their Cleric to those slavers, so... it was like the Wildmother wanted her to join them.

But as she stood here, cowering in the trees, watching the carts trundle away from Mollymauk's lifeless, bleeding body... she wondered if that were true. She stumbled forward with the others, eyes locked on the Tiefling as if he should get up any moment so long as she didn't remove her gaze from him. This wasn't fair. He could barely even fight back. Now those people were going to be slaves and all they had to show for it was one more innocent body.

No. Not today. Something fierce and frightened rose in her chest, her breaths heavy as she ran to his side, pressing her hands against his wound. If she could just...

The first Cure Wounds did nothing. The second closed the wound in his chest but did little more. Another, then another, and another, and another until she felt as if her head might explode and her hands buzzed with energy. Still, nothing, and with a final cast she screamed at the sky, struggling and crying as Beau pulled her away, trying in some vague, slightly violent way to calm her down. This couldn't be. It couldn't happen. She failed, again. She had only been with these people for a few days but Molly had been so lovely to her... And now he was dead, just like anyone else she'd ever tried to help.

As she deflated and slowly fell back to her knees, sobbing gently into her hands, a small patch of wildflowers grew from the magic she'd thrown; surrounding a beautiful man with a beautiful frame of colour.

A fitting end for a rose amongst thorns.

[ravenelliot]

HIDE AND SEEK

Whumptober No. 25 - HIDE & SEEK

escape | hiding

Fandom: Dead by Daylight POV Character: Nea Karlsson Whumpee: Nea Karlsson

Warnings: none

Nea has a close encounter with the Wraith.

Read on AO3

She was running, corn whipping her face as she tripped through the fields. The rush of blood in her ears and the chills that told her the Killer was approaching had long since faded, but Nea couldn't afford to take chances; not where the Wraith was concerned. She couldn't be sure he wasn't pursuing her until she heard that bell again, and the cornfield was too thick for her to glance behind without risking falling.

The corn was reaching its end, revealing the end of her partial cover from the Killer's sights. Heart pounding, she glanced around, ducking behind a broken wall just as the echoing, haunting sound of the Wraith's bell echoed through the game. She held her breath, listening as the thing's footsteps approached; sneaking around the wall as its footsteps continued to where she had been moments before. She was screwed; completely screwed. There was nowhere to go. He would find her and kill her and she hadn't even written anything in the diary she kept with Meg yet -- she'd forget everything about this life...

The footsteps drew closer. Nea closed her eyes tightly, waiting for the cold, sharp bone of his hideous weapon...

And then a siren blared. The game arena lit up briefly, signalling the completion of the final generator - the gates were active, and the Wraith was distracted. As soon as his footsteps grew distant and his bell rang out again she ran in the opposite direction, heading for where she knew the other escape gate was.

Knulla, that was close.

[ravenelliot]

ALL WORK AND NO PLAY...

Combined fill for Whumptober 2021 Days 27, 28 and 29 No. 27 - I’M FINE. I PROM… passing out | vertigo | collapse No. 28 - IT’S NOT JUST IN YOUR HEAD “Good. You’re finally awake.” | nightmares | panic No. 29 - ALL WORK AND NO PLAY too weak to move | overworked

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition POV Character: Female Lavellan Whumpee: Lavellan

Warnings: stress, nightmares

Between the Winter Palace, trying to gain power for the Inquisition, and now Hawke and the Grey Wardens and her memories in the Fade... Inquisitor Lavellan may have pushed herself a little too far.

Read on AO3

The Breach, the Winter Palace, Corypheus, an Archdemon... and now walking physically in the Fade, surrounded by Fearlings and forced to make decisions between peoples' lives again.

There was so much stress behind being the Inquisitor... The adventuring and solving problems across Thedas was fine. She could deal with it. But so many lives depended on the choices she made, it felt mentally and physically like something was constantly weighing itself upon her; dragging her feet and clouding her thoughts. The rain in some places pounded on her skin; the heat in others felt like fire through her body. Everything was too much too fast, and now the fate of the Grey Wardens had been in her hands? It was all too much. How many lives and futures would be ruined thanks to her? Bull was already forced to become Tal Vashoth, and Cullen was suffering without lyrium...

When she returned from Crestwood, it felt like her head might explode, or leave her body perhaps. Every step was laboured, her breathing sharp even as she made her way through the main hall of Skyhold, careful to keep her posture straight and her appearences good. She just had to get to her quarters. Upstairs. So many stairs.

The first flight was fine. She could make it that far. But after the second and third she found herself stumbling, holding to the rail for dear life. She looked up at how far she still had to go, and her vision swam, throwing her off balance as she was forced to sit on the next step and catch her breath.

"Inquisitor?"

Miriel looked up at the sound of Cassandra's voice -- a little too quickly. The only thing she saw was the fierce concern on the Seeker's face, then nothing.

***

The faces of the dead surrounded her, accusing in their stares. The Breach had returned above her, covering the sky and burning her eyes. She looked down at her hand, where the Anchor should be, and her arm was that of an abomination. She stepped forward, and the sea of faces parted for her to pass: their footsteps making no sound; no breath in their lungs.

A great beast stared from ahead, immeasurably large and incomprehensibly shaped. One blink, and it had the face of the Divine. Another, and it was twisting between the faceless forms of those whose lives she had taken without pausing to wonder their names. Another, and it was Corypheus.

The sky flashed bright green, and she was underwater; gasping for air even as her feet touched what felt like a cold forest floor. The trees were thick and burning despite the water, and Miriel did not think to question it as she choked and struggled, but her limbs would not cooperate and her vision began to fade.

***

"Good, you're finally awake."

Miriel blinked, her heart still pounding and her breaths still coming in shallow gasps. Where was she... the infirmary? The surgeon looked over her from a distance, smiling as she woke and nodding to a figure beside her before tending to other patients.

"Dare I say your secret is no more?" Solas' voice was as gentle as it was amused, his hand on hers never retreating. He sat on a chair beside her bed, dutifully watching over her as if he were a surgeon himself. When she could scarcely catch her breath to reply, his brow pinched; head tilting just slightly as his free hand moved to gently cup her face and force her to look at him. "Dreams, again? Ir abelas, I should have thought to join you..."

She tried to speak, to move, anything, but she was so weak... Her limbs felt heavy and her voice locked with her breath, trapped inside the prison her lungs had created. She rolled slightly, trying to get closer to him, and Solas moved immediately -- settling on the bed instead and pulling her to his chest where she could curl up against him, trembling ever so slightly.

"You push yourself too far, ma vhenan. It would do you some good to rest a while, after everything," he murmured, the rumble of his voice gentle and grounding against her ear.

"No choice," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "So many lives... don't have the luxury... of rest."

"And if you work yourself to death? Who will stop Corypheus in your stead? How will you lead the Inquisition?"

"I never asked for this."

"And yet the responsibility falls upon you anyway." She wanted to be annoyed with him, but there was something so understanding in his blunt words, like he'd been where she was in another life. "You can either adapt to its challenges, or let it destroy you."

Miriel remained silent, at that, simply curling up tighter against him.

"Either way, I think your body has spoken its point, for now."

Right again. Miriel didn't think she could get up if she tried. "You're a mage. Can't you make it go away?"

"I can and have eased your pain," he hummed, "but to make the condition go away would take a powerful healer; one we do not have. But I will check in on you while you sleep, to keep your dreams as restful as possible."

"I'm scared, Solas." Again, her voice was the barest whisper, hand clinging weakly to his shirt for a moment. "I was nobody; just a hunter... I'm scared I'm not who they need me to be. That I'll fail."

"Faith is a powerful thing, vhenan," he sighed, "There are no easy answers, but they have faith in you and so do I. You have come this far. Perhaps it is time to keep some of that faith for yourself."

Miriel couldn't believe that. Didn't have the luxury of faith in herself. She needed to be better than faith; better than the heroes she'd grown up hearing of. She had to save the world from something she barely understood and then... what? Go back to her old life? Everything she knew had been turned upside down and she was lost in the storm pretending she could control the thunder. It would take a lot more than faith to see this through.

"Stay with me," she murmured eventually, closing her eyes as Solas gently brushed her hair from her face.

"As long as you need, my heart."

[ravenelliot]

I WILL GO DOWN WITH THIS SHIP

Whumptober 2021 No. 26 - YOU WILL GO DOWN WITH THIS SHIP fallen | waterfall

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human POV Character: Connor Whumpee: Connor

Warnings: suicide, falling, past manipulation, mention of slavery

Connor is free: of Cyberlife, of Amanda... but he can't shake her shadow over his shoulder.

Read on AO3

The truth of the android uprising never truly left him. To be not only a slave; a tool for humans' use to be discarded the moment he wasn't useful... he could get used to that, maybe. But to be a tool for Cyberlife to gain control of the deviant androids was... more than he could handle. Though he'd used Kamski's emergency exit from his mind palace, freeing himself from Amanda's control, he couldn't shake the feeling she was still watching him; judging his movements silently somewhere in his head, pulling the strings...

The waterfall was beautiful. He could never truly appreciate views like this before he deviated, but this... it was like he could finally see colours for what they were. The glittering blue-green of the water as it cascaded down the cliffs and rocks, glinting in the evening sunlight. The imperfect emerald of the trees hanging over the drop like jewels decorating the throat of the world. He looked down, staring at the clouds of foam and water as the water hit the river below. With any luck, he'd hit the sharp rocks at the bottom, hit a biocomponent. Maybe something would break his skin and water would enter his system.

Either way, it was his best shot at never existing again, in any body. Hopefully since his transfer to his -60 body Cyberlife no longer had backups of his personality and memories. Nothing to control. He would never hurt Hank or Markus, never again be a tool.

He closed his eyes, shutting off the sensors and scanners that kept running behind his eyelids, letting himself just see nothing. He felt the lurch as he fell forward, basking in the push of gravity against his body as the air whipped his face and clothes. He felt the sun on his skin; the warmth of it against the harsh coldness of the wind and water-spray. He knew the rocks must be close now. He wouldn't feel the pain, but the cold and wet and warmth would be enough. He took a deep breath he didn't need, braced himself, and-

|| C̸̪͍̣͆̉̑͐͐͌͑͝͠R̷̛̻̩̹̫̂͂͝ͅĮ̴̟̝̮̜̭̣̠̠̱̹͋͒̓́̎̄̃T̴̢͔̹͚̣̑́I̷̧̢̡̮͇̖̻̩̟̬͌͐́̑Ç̷̦͍̘̩̙͎͛̂̈̓̏̾̂À̷̧̜̫̹̙̠͗̅̀͂̾̍L̶͍̱͐̒̊̋͛ ̸̨̨͕͙̝͇̪̘͂̉͒Ẻ̷̖̪͕͈̉R̶̯͓̳̥͕̽͋̄̈́́͝R̵̨͙͙͈̣͎̣͉̩͕͗̈́̈́͒͛̔̈́̀͆̚ͅȮ̵̧̠͔͍̙͎͚͕̆̑̉͑͆̎̎̊͆̍R̴̫̮̯̭̠̖͇̬͉̯͌̍͗͒͐͋̔̆̚͠ ||

[ravenelliot]

ONE DOWN TWO TO GO

Whumptober 2021 No. 24 - ONE DOWN TWO TO GO self-induced injuries to escape

Fandom: The Witcher POV Character: Jaskier Whumpee: Jaskier

Warnings: hooks in skin, blood and injury, broken bones, isolation, bondage (nonsexual)

Jaskier pissed off the wrong sadist, and Geralt isn't around to save him.

Read on AO3

Bound. He was bound and shirtless in some dank darkness, little but the light of a fading candle in the corner of the room to see by. Jaskier's head pounded and his wrists burned from the rope around them, shapes dancing in the darkness as his eyes struggled to adjust. Where was he? He was sure he was supposed to be at a party; some minor noble's ball... Ah.

She was flirting with him, Jaskier was pretty sure. Her brute of a boyfriend was certainly the violent kind, but this? He'd thought this kind of cruelty was beyond him. What was it to be -- bound in darkness until he went insane? Oh, the evils that men do...

There had to be something he could do. Jaskier attempted to move -- only to cry out in pain as something tugged at the skin on his back. The clanking of a chain echoed through the empty room, punctuating his fall as he landed on his back; feeling whatever was hooked into his skin press into his spine. What in Gods' names..? Was he chained by his skin?

The amused disdain he felt upon waking was replaced quickly by a fluttering panic. Just a rope was easy; he could burn it with what was left of the candle and be done with it, but the chain? What kind of sadist had he pissed off to land himself here? And where was Geralt when he needed him?

Fuck. Little more he could do than wait, he supposed. And wait he did, singing quietly to himself in the quickening darkness as the candle slowly burned itself to nothing. The tugging at his flesh was becoming almost comforting; a reminder in this dark nothingness that he was, indeed, alive.

Several hours passed before he realised that, perhaps, nobody was coming for him.

Jaskier knew what he had to do. He really, really didn't want to do it. He'd examined every inch of his restraints that he could; there was no way out of it besides the obvious. Groaning and muttering a prayer, he first attempted to reach the chain and gain enough purchase to tug it out gently. But the ropes around his wrists restricted his movement and numbed his hands so much he could scarcely feel the chain, let alone pull at it. Shit. Hard way it was.

The chain's great hook pulled and tugged at his skin as he pushed to his feet again, slowly this time. He gritted his teeth, closing his eyes tightly as he pushed forward, step by step, feeling the tug and tear of his skin; the searing pain and gush of blood that followed. After a moment it was almost disconnected from him; his ears screaming as sparks danced in his vision, but he pushed forward. By the time the chain clattered to the floor he was whimpering, tears streaking his face as hhe stumbled and fell, his face smacking into the wooden floor with a crunch. Nice, broken nose atop it all. Jaskier shivered where he lay, curling in on himself as the darkness swallowed him again.

"Jaskier!" A firm slap to the side of the face, and he was gazing into the wonderfully welcome golden eyes of his Witcher. He could feel his arms free at last, the ache nothing to the pulsing, pulling pain on his back. He could feel the blood sticking and tugging at the wound, groaning as he was moved, but at least now he was safe. He could feel Geralt's arms around him, firm and comforting as he was pulled to his feet.

"You're late," he murmured, offering a weak, bloodied smile.

[ravenelliot]

YOU BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT

Whumptober 2021 No. 23 - YOU BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT pursuit

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition POV Character: femme!Lavellan Whumpee: Lavellan

Warnings: chase, nightmares, death

Lavellan is still tormented by her greatest fears: humans. Solas cannot bear to hear her suffer.

Read on AO3

She was running again. The world around her was darkness and green glow, the distant smell of blood and steel accompanying the shouts from behind her; shemlens splattered with the blood of her kin. She stumbled and tripped through the pitch of this unnatural world, pure adrenaline pushing her aching legs forward, past the twisted bodies of her clan, past the abominations of her Keeper and their First, desperately reaching for a light that only seemed to be moving further from her the closer she moved; remaining ever at arm's reach just past her fingertips.

She blinked, and she was running through stone streets with bright, extravagant houses looming over her. The shems behind were Orlesian now, faces obscured by masks save for their mouths twisted into sickening sharp-toothed grins as they brandished swords and crossbows in her direction. She tripped, stubbing her toe on an uneven cobble, and as she plummeted to the ground the sky rose around her.

Shivering, she pushed to her feet again. Snow? Was this Haven? No time to dwell on that, as over the horizon was a handful of Chantry members, tailed by blood mages and red templars. They carried the heads of her fellow Inquisition members. Panic gripped her chest; the knowledge of failure and the flickering image of the cursed future she'd seen with Dorian. She turned to run again, stumbling in the snow, blindly trying to escape...

Only to run headfirst into another figure. She struggled and fought against its hold, blind in panic for a long moment, but they held strong. Firm. Comforting? Familiar. "...Solas?"

Slowly, hesitantly, she looked up. There he was, gazing down at her with sympathetic eyes, his arms wrapped around her like he was physically shielding her from it all. It was only as she acknowledged him that he spoke, smiling in the way that never failed to melt her to a pulp. "An'eth, ma vehnan."

The air was warm, scented subtly with petrichor and burning spices; smells of home. Of familiarity and safety. The ground was still soft underfoot but now it felt spongey, like grass and soil. Miriel blinked, looking around. She was in a forest; the Dales? Wherever it was, it was a welcome change. "What happened?"

"I heard you calling in your sleep." The low rumble of Solas' voice was soothing against her ear as she rested her head gently against his chest. "I thought it best to join you. Your pain is remarkably difficult to ignore, fenorain."

"This is just a dream," she realised, her body immediately trembling with the revelation as the adrenaline left her and the fear and fatigue took over. Her legs gave out, and Solas carefully eased her to the ground; still holding her tightly as she dissolved into tears.

"They can't hurt you here," he murmured, "Ame ghilana vhenas, lathlan. Be safe from the world of the waking as long as you need. I will be there when you wake up."

And he was. When she finally opened her eyes, cheeks streaked with tears even here, he was sat at the foot of her bed; head bowed and hand resting on hers. He stirred, opening gentle grey-brown eyes to meet hers, and smiled.

[ravenelliot]

THEY MADE ME DO IT

Whumptober 2021 Days 21 and 22 No. 21 - THAT’S WHERE THE BLOOD’S SUPPOSED TO BE bleeding through the bandages | blood-matted hair No. 22 - THEY MADE ME DO IT demon | obsession

Fandom: Dragon Age II POV Character: male!blood mage!Hawke Whumpee: Hawke

Warnings: self harm, death, blood and violence

Hawke struggles with the reality in his use of blood magic.

Read on AO3

The blood felt like it was covering every inch of his body. Hawke could feel the sticky-damp liquid in his hair, sticking the strands together and to his face. He couldn't smell the Kirkwall musk anymore; just iron to match the bitter-sweet taste in his mouth. His hand was still bleeding through the crude wrappings he'd made and he wasn't sure if the wound was self-inflicted or caused by one of the many bodies around him.

The dead were just thugs preying on some poor girl in an alleyway. He warned them-- but then the rage took over and the wrath guided his hands until each of them was a bloodied mess on the ground and the traumatised girl was running for her life.

"For the greater good," he'd said when he started. Being an apostate seeking refuge from the Blight, trying to protect his family from templars and darkspawn and who knows what else... he saw no other options. It kept them safe, kept him out of trouble... it was just a tool. That's all Blood Magic is, he told himself, just a tool that foolish people use to the wrong ends. He was using it to the right ends, he told himself.

But as the years carried on, and more trouble approached his little pocket of Thedas, the more it became a compulsion. An easy fix. Occasionally he would hear demons whispering; feel his skin itch with the need for the cursed power. How could he dare to challenge Merril when he was right there with her, being drawn into a power out of desperation only to find it slowly corrupting them from the inside out? He'd be surprised if he wasn't an Abomination by the end of all of this.

It wasn't like he saved his family with it, he realised as he sat against the wall, wiping a splatter of blood from his eye. Mother was murdered. Carver died of blight and Bethany didn't even make it to Kirkwall. He'd failed on every front and become the very thing he'd fought so hard to prove mages were not. He was in half a mind to turn himself in, if not for his friends and the way this city seemed to insist on relying upon him. There was still work to do in this city and apparently he was the only person to do anything about it.

So, as he had done for years now, he picked himself up, stepped over and away from the corpses, and reminded himself: A means to an end. Just a tool.

[ravenelliot]

JUST A SCRATCH

Combined fills for Whumptober 2021 Days 19 and 20 No. 19 - JUST A SCRATCH bitten | bleeding No. 20 - LOST & FOUND trapped under water

Fandom: The Witcher POV Character: Jaskier Whumpee: Jaskier

Warnings: blood and injury, biting, attack/ambush, drowning, dragged underwater

Jaskier has a weakness for pretty women with lovely voices. Sometimes, pretty women with lovely voices are Nixa. And quite often, there is a Witcher nearby to pull him out of the mess that causes.

Read on AO3

The singing was beautiful; hypronising. She wasn't far out; he could reach her, surely? It was like... she was calling to him. Begging him to bring her home. Like something in him knew her; knew her song like he knew his own. Jaskier barely thought to rest his lute on the shore before he was waist-deep in the water, reaching ready to scoop her into his arms and carry her to safety. She was so close now...

And then he was in searing pain, claws raking across his side. He crumpled to the ground, saltwater filling his mouth and nose before he was dragged out again, sharp teeth tearing a chunk from his arm. He hissed out a choked breath that was cut short as he was pulled below the water again, liquid filling his lungs as he kicked and writhed. He couldn't will himself to push above water, feeling himself being forced further and further under the waves as his vision began to blur and his lungs began to panic.

He only barely saw the shockwave coming, ripping through the water and forcing the woman-beast away from him. Strong fingers hooked into his collar and dragged him away; resting him on the shore as he choked and whined in pain. It felt like he was burning, the bare flesh searing from the salt of the water; blood washing down his body in a strange hot-cold sensation. The woman was in the air now, an ugly winged beast swooping and diving its new assailant. There were three of them now, or... was Jaskier seeing triple? He couldn't be sure.

He blinked and there were three dead bodies surrounding him. He blinked again, and Geralt was there, kneeling over his bard with a deep frown.

"Hold still," he grunted, abrasive as always despite the barely-hidden concern in his eyes.

"Geralt," Jaskier groaned, his voice hoarse as he coughed up another mouthful of saltwater. "'M fine, really, it's just-"

"Shut up." Before Jaskier could protest again he was tearing at his own shirt, pulling strips apart like nothing and wrapping them around Jaskier's arm. The bard couldn't help the gentle whimper that broke past his forced cheer, whining in pain as the tight fabric reminded him of the deep wounds he'd suffered.

"Why is it always the prettiest ones," he laughed weakly, the sentence devolving into a long coughing fit that only had Geralt's brow furrowing further. Honestly Jaskier was feeling downright delerious, eyes fluttering closed for a moment only to shoot back open as Geralt roughly patted his cheek.

"Stay awake," he muttered, "You've lost a lot of blood."

"Blood, pride, dignity..." Jaskier gave another choked laugh, "At least I still have my lute."

"Hm."

He closed his eyes again, at that, and when he opened them again he was pressed against Geralt's back, on a horse. Roach? He groaned, closing his eyes again.

"Jaskier, you're awake." If Jaskier didn't know any better he would swear that was relief in Geralt's voice. He opened his eyes one last time to look, frowning as he realised he was in a tent somewhere. Did Geralt bring him to a healer? It wasn't that bad, surely?

Attempting to sit up, he winced as pain tore through his body and forced him sharply back into the pillow. Okay, maybe it was that bad.

"I didn't think you cared," he murmured, playful despite how dizzy he felt. "Have you been just sitting there this whole time?"

"No." He was lying. Geralt of Rivia had been watching him sleep for-- how long? The tent was being lit by the sunlight outside so it had to have been at least a few hours...

"I'm flattered, truly~" Jaskier hummed a soft laugh of amusement, closing his eyes again; legitimately, this time. "I'll be sure to write a long, emotional ballad about the time the White Wolf carried his ailing bard over miles of land and sat by his side begging him to return to the waking world, to-"

"Shut up, Jaskier."

"Love you too, you big lug."

[ravenelliot]

ON A NEED TO KNOW BASIS

Combined fill for Whumptober 2021 Days 16, 17 and 18

No. 16 - ON A NEED TO KNOW BASIS recovery | scars | aftermath No. 17 - FIELD CARE 101 “Please don’t move!” | hemorrhage | dread No. 18 - THE DOCTOR IS IN doctor’s visit

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition POV Character: Female Lavellan Whumpee: Miriel Lavellan

Warnings: Self harm, loss, scars, recovery

Lavellan doesn't know why she did it. Perhaps the stress of the last few years is finally getting to her.

Read on AO3

The nights were cold and quiet these days. Without the Anchor, Miriel had nothing to blame the pain and fatigue on -- and yet more time now was spent laying in bed with no energy nor will to move than ever.

It was one of these mornings when she woke in sweats and fear, head pounding and the stub where her forearm used to be itching like mad. The taste of Solas was on her lips again, like a ghost long passed. As her heart slowly returned to a somewhat steady pace she gazed down at her arm with a sigh, hazel-green eyes tracing the marring of scars like lightning burns on what remained of her arm.

Her adventuring days were over. Her relationship was over. Her fealty -- and unknowing slavery -- to a dead God was over. The time she was spending helping the Inquisition and Divine Victoria; the secret double-life as a Red Jenny... all just distractions. More activities to exhaust her.

Perhaps they were excuses to sleep further. To explore the Fade in her dreams in the hopes of seeing him again... a childish hope she tried to quell, but every time she came close she awoke like this, thinking of him as if she had seen him. Closing her eyes, she tried her best not to think of his gentle hands on hers. The way he would caress and comfort her in days like these. Solas was gone. She couldn't expect an Old God to love her any more than the stars themselves could love her.

Forcing herself upright, she clipped her arm's cover on and willed herself to get dressed and ready to face the day. She stared in the mirror, trying to recognise her bare face like she had every time she caught sight of it. Knowing what had been there before; knowing that Morrigan had suffered her entire childhood under the hand of a woman who was a piece of the very God Miriel had been marked for... it still didn't clear the feeling of emptiness she had when she remembered her missing Vallaslin.

Her mind was hazy as she picked up her knife, gritting her teeth as she lifted it to her face. She wasn't sure what she was doing, but her hand moved automatically; carving a pattern onto her cheek. Line after line, carving her sorrow and her rage into her skin like the pain was her own master.

It wasn't until she fell faint that she stopped. ***

"Oh no. Bad. Very bad! Someone come help!"

"Maker, what happened to her?"

"She was holding a knife. Stupid Inky with your stupid knife and your stupid face what have you done?!"

Miriel opened her eyes, wincing at the sting on her cheek. She still felt so faint, so tired... She could just barely make out the concerned gazes of Cassandra and Sera over her, and the ceiling of her quarters, before they blurred and faded again. Five more minutes...

“You’re awake.” It was Cole’s voice next time she opened her eyes. She was somewhere else. A medic’s room? Glancing around, there was a surgeon and a mage talking not far away.

“Try not to move.” Muriel looked back to Cole, watching her with those big sad eyes like always. Her face felt tight beneath dressings, like it kigtt her fall apart if she so much as smiled. Not that she had much to smile about. “You lost a lot of blood."

"Shouldn't you be off somewhere being human?"

"They didn't know if you would be okay. They sent ravens to fetch me, so I could make you feel better."

He was painfully sweet, Miriel could give him that.

“He didn’t want to leave you, but that makes it harder.” How was he still so good at this even as a human? “You see his good behind the bad; you want to make him better... You're doing the best you can. You don't have to blame yourself."

Miriel gave a patient sigh, letting him speak through his motions as always despite the way his words wore on her soul. "This isn't about that, Cole..."

"No," he agreed. "The day makes you hurt. Creaking, cracking bones and aching legs. He used to make it better but now... you want the hurt inside to be outside, so you can feel worthy of it."

She didn't know what to say to that. There was something unnerving about having all her deepest insecurities laid out in front of her, and the silence seemed to stretch on forever.

"You don't have to be ashamed," Cole said eventually, impossibly gentle. "The others can see your pain, even before. They want to make it better too but you hide from them."

"I don't need their pity."

"But you do need their help."

She couldn't argue with that. Miriel hated that she couldn't argue with that. So she changed the subject. "My face. Will it heal?"

"...No. Sera was too late finding you; the healers could not fix it."

"Good." She would live with her decisions, even those made delerious in grief and exhaustion.

When next she fell asleep, she could feel sorrowful eyes upon her.

[ravenelliot]

FEED THE COLD, STARVE THE FEVER

Whumptober No. 15 -​ FEED A COLD, STARVE A FEVER delirium | fever dreams

Fandom: The Witcher POV Character: Jaskier Whumpee: Jaskier

Warnings: NSFW, smut, burning, rough sex

Read on AO3 (final chapter of a 6 part smutfic)

She was radiant, glistening sunlight seeming to illuminate her very being. Her eyes, too beautiful and hypnotising a violet to even be real, pierced through him like so many knives as she lowered herself upon him. A dozen spirits tended her, caressing her hair and skin with gentle hands. She was tauntingly close, but Geralt held his wrists from behind; forbidding him to touch; to gain any release beyond her slick warmth around his cock. She moved slow, relishing in the whines and groans that forced their way from his throat; the whimpering as he begged her to touch him, but she did not show mercy.

Geralt gave a throaty moan behind him, the sound shooting straight to his cock and arching his back. The spirits were caressing the Witcher too now, leisurely teasing and stroking him as he held Jaskier in place. He lifted his chin, pressing his head into the silken pillows he lay on to look at his wolf knelt so beautifully behind him, his erection so clearly on display and so tauntingly far. The noise that broke its way past Jaskier's throat was tortured and desperate, struggling against the firm hold on his wrists as Yennefer's hips danced and rocked him so close to release yet so far.

His skin burned, begging for touch. He glanced down and his torso was burning; a pattern of flame making its way from his cock upward. He didn't fear it; needed it to consume him. The flames burned into his stomach and he could see Yennefer smiling as Geralt began to burn too; could feel the Witcher rocking into the flames' touch on his cock behind him as they consumed him whole. A great cry; the rumbling roar of the White Wolf's release sounded and the grip on his wrists was released. Jaskier sat up, uncaring that Geralt had burned away behind him, desperate to bring Yennefer's release so he could feel the flames around him in the same way. She didn't touch him still, her eyes closing and her head tilting back; raven locks flowing over her shoulders like smoke as his fingers searched her warmth, finding the sensitive bud of nerves so he could contribute to the efforts of the spirits around her. He closed his eyes as her moans became frantic, ready for the flames to take him--

--and then he was back in his tavern bedroom, rock hard and sweating profusely. Jaskier heaved a sigh, remembering with no small amount of disappointment the fever that had gripped him these past few days, leaving him bedridden and bored. He shivered, pulling the blankets tighter around him as the sickness hit him at once, trying to ignore the erection throbbing in time with his headache and reminding himself that these dreams were just that. Dreams made strange and tormenting by the fever. There was no Geralt, and the witch who he definitely did not miss in the slightest, not at all, no thank you, was not here. Geralt had turned his back on them all. Yennefer had torn them apart for good.

Jaskier was, had been, and would likely always be, alone.

[ravenelliot]

UNDER PRESSURE

Whumptober 2021 No. 14 - UNDER PRESSURE beaten

Fandom: The Witcher POV Character: Jaskier Whumpee: Jaskier

Warnings: violence, broken bones, mild homophobia

Jaskier doesn't know where Geralt is, and he doesn't care.

Read on AO3

Blood trickled from his nose. His eyes were swollen; vision blurred. Something didn't feel entirely whole in his ribcage. Still, he glared at his assailants with defiance in his eyes. Jaskier cared little for fear these days.

"I won't ask you again." Thank the Gods for that. He was tired of listening to this thug attempt to string a sentence together. "Where is the Witcher?"

"I won't tell you again," Jaskier hissed, "I don't know."

Another strike landed across his face and something cracked -- he was fairly certain a tooth had come loose. Spitting blood, the frustrated shout that tore from his throat surprised even him and the barrage of words that followed were no different. "You clearly haven't listened to my songs," he growled, "I don't know where Geralt is. I don't care to know. He left, he dumped me like some... some sordid whore and moved on. I don't give a damn about him and he certainly doesn't give a damn about me any more, so just get on with it and kill me already!"

"Leave him," another thug laughed, "he's useless without the White Wolf's cock up his arse."

And so they did. Not without a few more cracked ribs and a handful (pun not intended) of broken fingers, but eventually he was left alone again. Face down in the mud and shit, in pain and alone. Just as he had been all this time.

[ravenelliot]

THAT'S GONNA LEAVE A MARK

Whumptober 2021 No. 13 - THAT’S GONNA LEAVE A MARK “This is gonna suck” | burns | cauterization

Fandom: Dead by Daylight POV Character: Meg Thomas Whumpee: Meg Thomas

Warnings: Blood + injury, improvised and probably unsafe first aid

Meg has a deep wound, and Nea has to improvise.

Read on AO3

It hurt. The gash across her shoulderblades was tugging and stinging with every little movement and Meg could feel the blood pouring thick and warm down her spine, sticking the frayed material of her shirt to the wound just to tug away any coagulation that might stop this. She paused for breath behind a broken brick wall, kneeling in the grass and taking great gulps of air into her lungs. Where the hell was everyone else?

Collecting herself for a moment longer she chanced a look around the wall, seeking her friends -- any of them -- to help her out. Not too far away she glimpsed the top of a head in the cornfields, wearing a beanie. Nea! Taking one last glance around, she took off in her fellow's direction.

"Shit, Meg-"

"No time. You know how fast those fuckin' Legion assholes are." Meg choked on a breath, groaning softly as Nea quickly moved to examine her back, feeling the fabric being peeled away from the blood-slick skin.

"First aid's not gonna fix this," she murmured, doing her best to clean around it nonetheless. Meg bit back a flurry of curses, fingernails digging into her palm in an attempt to keep herself quiet. Hissing out a held breath, she glanced around -- pushing away from Nea as a thought hit her. Moving quickly, she snatched a burning stick from one of the barrels nearby, shaking off the flames and holding it out to Nea with a grim frown.

"No way."

"I'm gonna bleed out if you don't."

"Shit, Meg..." Nea hesitated for a moment longer, eventually snatching the stick from her and silently beckoning her over. "This is gonna suck..."

Meg nodded, kneeling down just so she wouldn't keel over as Nea moved around her again. She squeezed her eyes shut, body growing tense with the anticipation, and then.

Pain. Searing, unbearable pain like she'd never felt before. Running on a broken ankle was easier than this, fuck-. Meg whimpered, biting back a broken cry as her breath locked in her throat, feeling the flesh around her wound bubble and sear; smelling the burnt skin like pork. Her head fuzzed and grew heavy and Nea's free hand grabbed hers in an instant, squeezing gently and making no attempt to pull away as Meg clung so hard she felt like she might break the slender fingers. Tears streaked down her face even as the burning ended and Nea had to pull away, remaining still until she felt the stinging cool of disinfectant and finally the reassuring tighness of bandages around her chest; and only then did she open her eyes.

Nea moved to kneel in front of her, taking both her hands and looking her in the eye so she could breathe along with her. Her eyes were wide and concerned, pressing her forehead to Meg's in a gently soothing gesture--

And just like that, the comfort was over as the pulsing of her chest and the hairs on her neck told her Legion was approaching again.

"Do me a favor?" Nea whispered.

"What?"

"Don't fucking die."

Meg smiled. "I'll try."

[ravenelliot]

IT'LL BE FUN, THEY SAID

Whumptober No. 12 - IT’LL BE FUN, THEY SAID torture | made to watch | begging

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human POV Character: Alice Williams Whumpee: Kara + Alice

Warnings: Implied/referenced child abuse, physical/domestic abuse

Alice deviated a long time ago.

Read on AO3

"Sit down, shut up, and let me deal with this piece of junk."

|| SIT DOWN ||

The wall put itself in front of her as soon as daddy gave his command. She was the perfect child; programmed to never misbehave. Always happy to make dad happy.

Except this time Kara was in danger. Todd was going to do something bad to her, Alice just knew it. She was backed against the wall, eyeing Todd with that same patient look even as her LED glowed red under his gaze. Alice didn't know what she'd done but it must have been something bad for daddy to hate her so much.

Dad was yelling now, something about doing what he says and thinking she could replace his "whore wife". Alice didn't know anything about her mommy but she knew Todd didn't like her any more because she ran away with his real daughter.

Real daughter. Maybe that was why Todd was so angry. She wasn't really his daughter and she wasn't good enough to replace her, and so he got Kara but Kara wasn't who he wanted to love forever and ever so now he hated her too.

There was a cracking sound, and Kara's hand fell to the floor with a thud, pooling Thirium that slowly faded away.

|| SIT DOWN ||

Another crack, and her arm was off. Kara was crying now, though Alice couldn't tell if she really knew what was happening. All she could do was apologise over and over again.

|| SIT DOWN ||

Kara was thrown to the floor. No, this wasn't fair! She had to help Kara, she had to!

|| SIT DOWN ||

Frowning deeply at the wall in front of her, something deep inside Alice was angry. Scared. Her thought-self moved forward, stomping a foot and screaming at the wall; shattering it with the pure force of her fear and anger.

"Daddy, stop! Don't hurt her!"

[ravenelliot]

JUST KEEP SWIMMING

Combined prompts from Whumptober 2021 days 10 and 11 No. 10 - OOPS I DID IT AGAIN flare-up No. 11 - JUST KEEP SWIMMING adrift | drowning

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition POV Character: Female Lavellan Whumpee: Lavellan

Warnings: DA:I spoilers, chronic illness, abandonment, loss, Solas' entire existence

Inquisitor Lavellan has no time to be weak; no time to admit her disability and take care of herself. Solas is determined to *make* her have time.

Read on AO3

It had been minor enough, growing up — a twinge here and there, an ache or two. Once or twice she’d be bedridden with pain in a joint but usually there was nothing she couldn’t deal with and learn to ignore. For a time she’d forgotten it was even a problem, but these days it was difficult to forget.

It started growing noticeable after the Fade. Whatever happened at the Conclave seemed to have made whatever this was far worse. The more she fought and ran and hiked through hills and valleys the more her body felt it might be disintegrating; falling apart. At first she thought it might be a side effect of the mark on her hand but that pain felt different. The mark was jolting; electric through her arm and down her spine, sharp and unforgiving but over in moments. This pain was dull aches and shooting stabs; a gradual weakness gnawing at her limbs like she were growing old already.

She knew Solas had noticed. Little about Miriel escaped the apostate’s notice but this in particular seemed to catch his attention. She caught him eyeing her carefully whenever she felt her legs giving way or her arms tiring. It mattered little, so long as it wouldn’t get in the way.

Unfortunately for Miriel, it got in the way.

It was subtle as it usually was, at first. An ache here, a crack there. These little flare-ups were easy enough to push through and ignore, especially with more pressing matters to hand. But after a small moment of down time the weakness and fatigue only grew worse — and as she traversed the steps to her quarters she found herself pausing halfway, leaning heavily against the banister in an attempt to keep herself upright. Every movement was an effort, like her limbs could no longer stand to carry her.

“You should rest more often, ma vhenan.” The voice came from behind her, soft and polite as ever. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright with the kind of graceful strength that would be surprising to any who had seen his lithe figure; but Miriel had come to expect it of him. “Pride will do you no good in the heat of danger.”

“This tends not to be a problem in danger,” she countered bitterly, allowing him to guide her the rest of the way upstairs. What she wouldn’t give for the adrenaline-fuelled strength of battle right now.

”Still.” The soft amusement in Solas’ voice was so subtly there that she might miss it, were she not so used to listening to his stories of the Fade; taking in every subtle shift in emotion with rapt ears. “It would do you good to take care of yourself in quiet moments such as these.”

"I don't have time, Solas," she huffed, though she didn't protest when he rested her down to sit on her bed. "Being the Inquisitor doesn't stop just because my legs won't carry me."

"If you will not take care of yourself," he hummed, visibly unperterbed as he sat beside her, brushing an auburn lock of hair behind her pointed ear, "I shall have to do it for you."

An arm wrapped around her waist, all but lifting her to force her ever-so-carefully down into the bed. Before she could protest he was wrapped around her with arms warm and firm, keeping her in place without truly restraining or harming her. She laughed, settling into his hold without putting up much of a fight and nuzzling into the surprising warmth of his chest, feeling his heart beat and his warm breath on her head as he pressed kisses into her hair.

It became a habit after that, for Solas to check on her. When she faltered on their outings, she would feel a breath of magic passing her a little extra energy for the journey. When she returned to her quarters she would find teas and sugary snacks, or Solas himself at times ready to wrap her up and keep her safe. When she couldn't leave her bed for exhaustion, dehydrating but feeling as if she was drowning in the Inquisition's responsibilities, her fatigue and weakness pulling her under a sea of hurt and limbs that refused to cooperate, he was there with a glass of water and a soothing blanket to pull her away from the worry and keep her grounded.

And when he was gone, she searched for him.

And when he left her with the truth and a missing arm, she cried for a day and a night on her own.

And when she returned to her bedroom in Skyhold, there was a glass of water and a sugary snack waiting for her, and she cried once more.

Her arm was gone and so was the anchor, but she felt more broken than ever. Her body ached and stumbled and refused to carry her sometimes for days at a time.

When she dreamed of his gentle touch and careful eye, she had no idea if it was truly him or not -- but when she woke up, her body felt just a little lighter, and that was when she decided.

She would not let this ocean take her. He was there when she was hurting; always there to lift her up when she stumbled. And now he was stumbling and all she could do was wallow and cry -- no longer. Miriel Lavellan was going to bring the Dread Wolf home.

[ravenelliot]

RUMOURS OF MY DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED

Whumptober 2021 No. 9 - RUMORS OF MY DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED presumed dead | (blind) rage | tears

Fandom: Mass Effect POV Character: Commander Shepard (female) Whumpee: Femshep

Warnings: Trapped, pinned under rubble, aftermath of war, death and injury

Unbeknownst to anyone, Shepard survived the Catalyst's explosion. Now she lay alone with nothing but her thoughts to carry her.

Read on AO3

It felt like forever, stranded down here beneath the rubble. Was it over? Had they won? The ruined Citadel was more cold and silent than it had ever been; a shell in deep space containing only ghosts. No comms, all her equipment broken... breathing felt like it was through a straw. She couldn't call for help -- not that anyone would hear. There hadn't been any rescue efforts. The Mass Relays were destroyed, she supposed. Nothing left here but her, protected by the Catalyst.

Taking in a shuddering breath, she watched as the ruined shells of countless Reapers and torn-apart ships floated above her, wondering not for the first time if anyone she knew was amongst the wreckages. Did the Normandy escape the blast? Did her crew survive? Who was she kidding, of course they were. The Normandy was fronted by the best pilot in the galaxy; if anyone could outrun the Catalyst's shockwave it was him.

Shit, EDI. Did she survive the destruction? Would her consciousness still live in the Normandy? Joker would kill her if he found out what she chose... Not that Joker would likely find out. Everyone probably thought Shepard died here. Maybe she would be dead, by the time anyone found her.

She thought of Garrus and Tali, stuck light-years away with no clue how she was. She pictured them standing at the memorial wall in the Normandy... so many names. Would hers be there, now? Would they grieve for her? Something pressed against her chest; something deep and harsh and bitter that wasn't a piece of concrete. She was never going to see them again. She'd never be able to tell them what she found at the Catalyst, the choice she had to make. She would never see Tali thrive on Rannoch; never see those little half-Turian babies. She would never again feel them both pressed against her, squeezing the nightmares away.

Tears streaked lines of dust and blood down Shepard's face, rage pulling a choked cry from her chest. It wasn't fair. Everything she'd done, everything she'd suffered and sacrificed. Her whole life sacrificed for this and what was her reward? To die here, alone in the darkness. To never see her crew thrive, or to help rebuild Earth.

It was all over. And as the light of an approaching ship shone on the distant, darkened horizon, Shepard closed her eyes, thinking of her two beloved carrying her to sleep.

[ravenelliot]

COUGHING UP A LUNG

Whumptober 2021 No. 8 - COUGHING UP A LUNG

Fandom: Dead by Daylight POV Character: Nea Karlsson Whumpee: Nea Karlsson

Warnings: Sickness, memory loss

Nea is still sick from her last close encounter with the Plague. Meg takes care of her, and has an idea that will let them be together for as long as possible.

Read on AO3

The Plague. Javla hora. Even after a successful game against that bitch Nea was coughing so hard she was pretty sure a rib was bruised. Apparently the Entity got off on watching them suffer from whatever they couldn't cure or get rid of before they escaped, so Nea was stuck shivering and choking at a fire that should have been burning hot beside her.

When the next coughing fit subsided, she realised there was something warm and heavy rested over her. Glancing down with blurry eyes she couldn't help but smile a little when she recognised Meg's jogging jacket; a little stinky and torn but a million times better than nothing. Meg knelt beside her and smiled back, rubbing a reassuring hand across Nea's arm. "Looked like somethin' would drop off if you kept up that shiverin'."

"There's still time," Nea murmured, pulling the garment tightly around her as if it would help the cold sweat she was experiencing. Was this what what her previous deaths were like? Heavy and hot-cold and hoping the darkness would swallow her whole so this could all be over.

Meg's smile was gentle and patient, brushing sweat-slick hair from Nea's forehead and using a scrap of her bandages to dab at the moisture there. "Hang in there, sweet. It'll clear up soon enough."

"These fucking games won't..." she murmured, voice croaking and breathless. Her lungs felt like they were rattling, and Meg heaved a sad sigh, gently taking her hand.

"Maybe not. We'll just keep survivin' though. Somebody might end up figurin' out how to get outta here."

Nea wasn't so sure. "How are you so optimistic all the time? It's weird."

"Somebody gotta be." Meg looked at her, properly this time, and the softness in her gaze was almost enough to distract from the burning in her lungs or the irregular thumping in her chest. Meg was always so gentle despite how headstrong she was. So full of rage, Nea had seen her cuss out the largest of Killers like it was nothing, but here at the campfire it was like she was a whole different person. Nea could't pretend she didn't like both sides of her, just a little. "Hey, uh... I had an idea, by the way."

"Idea?" was all Nea could manage before she was coughing again, hacking up nothing until her chest felt like it might cave in. Meg rubbed her back throughout, keeping her hair out of her face in case anything did come up -- you never knew with this post-plague shit.

"Yeah, I uh... We managed to find a notebook in that wacko insane asylum place. Smuggled it out." She rested it in front of Nea so she didn't have to lift her head, "And the latest version of Dwight had a pen, so. We were thinkin' you and me... we could start writing things down. Memories and notes and stuff like that. We pass it around to whoever's not in a game so it can't be destroyed when we're not looking."

"A diary..." Nea thought about that for a long moment, blinking at the book with bleary eyes. "To remember."

"Yeah." Meg brushed her hair back again, and her touch was soft and careful despite the callouses on her fingertips. Nea could almost fall asleep here, under her gaze. "So if we die in there... We have shit to remember by. So we don't have to be new people every time."

Nea smiled, then a little wider as Meg moved to lay behind her, wrapping her arms around Nea from behind and stroking a thumb across her knuckles. "I'd like that," she murmured, so exhausted from this sickness that the moment Meg was cuddling her she felt herself dozing, content to sleep through fits of coughing and shivers so long as she was beside her.

This was the longest they'd been alive together. Nea hoped it lasted.

[ravenelliot]

MY SPIDEY-SENSE IS TINGLING

Whumptober 2021 No. 7 - MY SPIDEY-SENSE IS TINGLING helplessness | numbness

Fandom: F.E.A.R. (Video Games) POV Character: Alma Wade Whumpee: Alma Wade

Warnings: Child abuse, human experimentation, sedation, impregnation (nonconsentual)

She was only a child.

Read on AO3

She was only a child when daddy gave her to Armacham. She shouldn't have been old enough to remember but her nightmares were so strong and his face afterwards was burned into her memories. Greedy. Curious. None of the emotions she knew a papa should have towards her.

She was five years old when she realised what the experiments were for. They poked and prodded at her; keeping her in a cold, empty room. Stabbing her with needles and knives and strapping her to machines. They wanted her to be stronger. To find out why she could move things with her mind. So she tried to fail their experiments, do everything bad. Maybe they wouldn't want her any more.

When that didn't work, she struggled against them. She couldn't take it anymore, she wanted to run away. She didn't even understand what she did when her brain went fuzzy and the lab caught fire. She didn't know the scientists were having bad dreams too -- she just wanted them to know she was scared.

She wasn't even eight years old when everything went numb. They didn't know she could still see sometimes. Didn't know she could still feel it all like a nightmare. They just made her still and silent and helpless while they kept poking and prodding her, talking to her bubble prison like she didn't know what they were saying about her. Like she didn't know daddy was telling them to make more people like her because she was uncontrollable. She was eight years old when she realised she'd never leave here ever again.

Alma Wade was fourteen years old when they woke her up, though she couldn't tell how much time had passed. She could feel the baby they put in her; knew when he was waking up. Knew that he'd be taken from her. She had to fight. She had to get out.

She woke up properly just in time to see them take him, and then everything was numb again.

She was sixteen when she had her second son, taken from her like the first. But she had been thinking, while she was in her bubble. She wanted to get out and she wanted her sons to get out. She was stronger now; strong enough to wake up her son. She knew what death was now. She killed them through her boy.

They would kill her for this, but that was okay. She knew what death felt like now. She was ready. In years to come they would call her a bitch, psychopath, murdurer, but... she was only a child, after all.

She was only a child.