Susie notices, by the Angel she notices. Contrary to popular belief, unless she's on defense she's not exactly the confronting type. At least not with her friends, she isn't. Ha, when did she start thinking of having friends.
…Probably when Toriel spoke in a way that gave her an option. Speaking of, Susie is incredibly concerned that she somehow hasn't noticed it. The bloodstain, that is.
And Susie's not stupid! At least she likes to think she isn't, but it's hard to be smart when what you notice isn't the square root of Blurty-Kicks but the situations of the people around you.
She notices when Noelle's mom isn't the best parent, but that's kind of shoved in her face when they meet in person.
She notices when Kris is tense with their parents, but she puts that off, it's probably just their weird Dad. Ex-Dad? She has bigger dark-worldier concerns.
She notices when Ralsei and Kris don't tell her things. Because Angel do they Not Tell Her Things.
So this is what she does. She makes a list in her head.
1.She does not know things.
It’s been that way for as long as she can remember, left out of any proceedings until it’s through with. A complete lack of any choice.
2.There has to be a reason. They’re friends.
They are her friends, right? They have a warriors bond! Forged in- well not blood- she thinks back to the stain- but still, a bond forged by battle and good times and tea parties. They have to have a reason. Why? Why her. Are they separate secrets? No, they’re almost definitely connected, but how?
3.Kris is going through something.
It’s not like she can ignore it. There’s something wrong, something happening. The way they say some things- it’s like normal, but… thinking back to what Noelle said, it feels off. How eagerly they said perish to Queen’s offer. How they walk like they’re a puppet on stri- oh no the puppet again. That too! What WAS that! Kris was shaking, terrified. Something is wrong.
4.It’s personal.
She can’t have everything. The fact Ralsei probably knows is, knowing how Kris was with Ralsei at the beginning, probably an accident. Or just Ralsei knowing things again. She has her own stories, she thinks, about pianos, about blood, about fear. It’s not their business, but she wishes it could be. She wishes it was hers.
Until then, she has an old man to make proud. Friends to protect. A world to save. Maybe then, they’ll tell her.
New Fic dropped, go get your fix if you're into that stuff, kids! (gratuitous and liberal use of probably very bad Nostraman).
Sing Me a Song of Those Who Were Gone by NinaMadou
Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors, Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Explicit
Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
M/M
Complete Work
A Nostraman song accompanies one of the sons of the sunless worlds through his times as First Captain of the Night Lords, sung to those few who manage to approach him. By the end, its lesson has been taught - and rejected.
Story: [Power Behind the Throne] (original work)
Prompt: #FFF [351] [Behind the Lights] @flashfictionfridayofficial
Word count: 533
Power Behind the Throne
Wraith takes up his usual position in the lecture theatre: exact centre row, somewhat to the left.
He arrives early - but not first.
By the time Professor Hardcastle arrives, he is bent diligently over his notebook, pen laden with ink, poised and ready. From his position on the dais, the Professor can likely only see the top of his head, the sweep of his widow's peak.
Wrait notes the way the Professor's eyes sweep over the room, counting them at best, most likely just seeing if the amount of students looks right; watches his eyes land on beautiful Envy in the front row and Artemis sprawled in the seat nearest the door; listens to him answer a few worried questions from the cluster of eager try-hards who always start classes with such things.
And he is unnoticed.
Lunch hour is the same. Not alone enough to be noticeable, he doesn't skip meals or isolate himself, to do such is to invite the school doctor to descend upon him, to take notes, to send letters home.
Instead, he sits at the far corner of a table full of classmates squabbling about Applied linguistics and Para-Psychology and Mathmatical Principals and Chimera Husbandry. He contributes a few words, but no passionate discussion.
He keeps his marks perfectly average. Nothing outstanding and worth accolades, and nothing so dire it merits remediation or scruity.
And at night, ah, at night, he opes a completely different notebook. When he had first conceived the idea, he had thought of something in midnight blue leather with moonstone embellishments and great wrought iron bindings…but no. He is a mastermind, he doesn't need to be pretentious with it.
Instead he uses a plain black notebook, the kind that can be picked up anywhere. He writes in enchanted ink, as do they all. He spells the book closed, locked, unreadable. He hides it, moving it regularly. And they are roomed according to class level. His roommate is just as average as he poports to be.
Better still, Briar - being in such close proximity - is his favourite test subject, so he is certain there is nothing beyond the usual purile farce of disinterest to mask diligence behind those slate eyes. Nonetheless, Wraith spells him to sleep deeply, not wake as he burns the midnight oil, and regularly does a mindwash to boot. It probably costs Briar a few percent now and then, but what is that to him.
Para-psychology.
Astrology.
Telekinetic potential.
His classmates don't even think nearly big enough.
Wraith is almost sure he has cracked (nearly, almost, any day now) a process for complete, psychic transferance. He's managed it for short periods: looked out from behind Briar's eyes, left his own body to sleep and gone about the day as someone else.
Once he's perfected it…oh, he'll have everything. He could be anyone.
Better still, he can be anyone for just a few, short, critical hours. Make a few decisions, tweak a few school rules and then laws, arrange a few meetings, start - or stop - a few wars. Anything he wants - anyone he wants - will be his for the taking.
Fortemps household dynamics fascinate me endlessly, so here is some barely grown-up Artoriel POV
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV | Words: 359 | read on Ao3
Artoirel de Fortemps | pre-ARR
Rating: Teen. Character study, Ishgard society, Fortemps family, mention of infidelity (canonical), why is Artoirel the way he is? vague heavenwards spoilers
Third-rate
Artoirel de Fortemps doesn’t stop when he sees his little brother run past him, bloody nose and tears streaking down his face. He merely gets out of the way. Emmanellain doesn’t see him, his eyes on the ground as he rushes by. Probably running off to nanny, though he is far too big for that. Artoirel sneers, unbiddenly, and continues around the corner.
“Some third-rate knight he’ll be.”
“Third son, too.”
“More worthless than a bastard.”
This makes Artoirel pause. The statement is followed by raucous laughter. It would be unseemly to get in a fight over Haurchefant.
“Well, Haurchefant is a fine fellow.”
“For a bastard, aye.”
Someone snorts. “Don’t say that to his face. He trounced Delicrouxeus the other day. Mark my word, Count Fortemps will give him command of something.”
“Emond can’t even command his own dick.”
More laughter. Artoirel's ears burn. He bites his cheek. He cannot be unseemly. He needs to be above reproach. The Fury knows his brother isn’t going to be.
“Mayhap little Emmanellain is Halone’s punishment? A hapless idiot of a son.”
“Bet ol’ Edmont would have been happy with even another stick in the mud like Atoriel rather than Emmanellain.”
“If he kept himself true, he’d mayhap had a brave and personable trueborn son. They’d all be a third-rate House this way.”
His clenched fist hit the wall. Atoriel bites his cheek to keep from crying out. He cannot. His growth spurt done, he’d hardly get any taller, but he cannot take on three squires. He mustn’t.
“Kept himself pure – Haviellemont, you better learn that. I saw you with that wench in the Brume but two days ago.”
“And what were you doing there?”
The voices fade as Artoirel hurries away. He does not run. He is not his little brother. If only Emmanellain behaved proper, there would be no doubt about the honor of their house. He brings shame on them all. Artoirel reaches the fresh, crisp air. He cannot help his little brother’s follies. He simply must be a better example. Above reproach, the perfect heir. Father needs neither Haurchefant nor Emmanellain as long as Artoirel is peerless.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
"I have been watching my brother, even though he does not like that name. He's been more upset than usual. I just wanted to help, but he never let me. He just threatens to hurt me like always, but lately he can't even get through his usual speeches without choking and glitching. It looks like it hurts!
"I am worried about him. I finally had a good excuse to look for him! Mirage and I are making a cookbook, so I was going to ask him if he knew any good recipes to include. I planned to ask him why he's been acting so damaged lately, and see if I might be able to help. But when I went looking in all the usual places he hides… He wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. I couldn't find him.
"I heard his voice, but when I turned the corner to wave to him, I saw someone I don't know."
…
This is a character piece formed via my own pain. I turned it into an interaction that I could imagine happening.
---------
"Oh! Hello new friend! You sound like—”
“Shut it.” His voice sounds just like him.
The blue MRVN approaches the new face gingerly, bouncing with each step. Maybe Revenant has a secret brother, which means—
Pathfinder is giddy, what if he had two brothers just like Revenant? Sure, he's a little mean, but that's just how big brothers are!
“What’s your name?!” Pathfinder’s vocalizations pitch with excitement, facing the back of the new, massive figure before him. If he's in the Apex facility, he must be new! Maybe he needs a friend to show him around?
The figure’s head kicks up visibly from the back, as if in surprise. The black hood turns to glance at the MRVN behind him.
This machine has a smooth, white face with few notches. He looks brand new with no scuffs or faded materials, sporting a massive red smile and jaw. The solid yellow eyes shift just a little to lock onto Pathfinder's red bulb, revealing a honeycomb pattern to the filter. He has a nasal cavity just like Revenant, and red lines traveling up from his eyes instead of down. He even has a beautiful notch of red on his forehead, barely showing from under the cloth hood.
“Wow!” Pathfinder quietly expresses aloud, slightly moving in his direction as if yearning for a closer look.
The figure growls, turning away rapidly at the expression, leaving nothing but an oppressive array of long antenna and stabilizers jutting out from his shoulders towards Pathfinder.
“It's me.” He says in Revenant's voice.
“That's a strange name, but nice to meet—”
“No, it's me. Revenant. Can't you hear me, you useless amalgamation of scraps?!” He spins back around, angry.
Just like Revenant would.
But that's not him.
A moment of confusion washes over Pathfinder.
“Oh, is this one of your new, fancy shells? I haven't seen this one before!” Pathfinder bounces back. Revenant almost never uses the fancy ones, this one is so different he almost didn't recognize him!
“No. It's not.” The smile hangs downward.
“What—do you mean…?” Pathfinder’s vocals trail off a little quieter. The hallways have long since gone quiet as the evening becomes old. Even though there's no one around, something feels sour in the air.
Something isn't right.
“I'm stuck.” The smile makes a cracking sound, like porcelain under stress. “I can't get out of this… thing.”
Pathfinder reels back just a little. This body is big. Could his normal body really fit inside?
Something makes a cracking sound ever so slightly behind the smile.
“Could I help?” Pathfinder cautiously asks, knowing full well the explosive anger will probably immediately follow.
But…
It doesn't. There's no outburst. No abuse. No rage. No nothing.
The whole unfamiliar chassis tenses up, just like humans when they're in pain, but then it all loosens. Every joint becomes lax, but they don't fight gravity. They hang, like the effort to fight their own weight is too much.
Finally, a resigned sigh can be heard.
“No, you can't.” He says.
This isn't Revenant.
Revenant doesn't look like this. Revenant doesn't smile. Revenant doesn't pass up an opportunity to be mean or yell at him like this.
His hands look the same. His colors are close. His build is so similar. He still has the same voice.
Then why does it feel so wrong?
“When are you going back?” Pathfinder’s voice quakes just a little in its quiet concern.
The body tenses again.
“I'm never going back.” He splays open his palm, looking into the familiar red leather.
Pathfinder feels something deep within himself shift. This is wrong. That can't be right. He'll never go back? He can just swap chassis, can't he?
“But—!”
“Pathfinder, shut up. I have enough problems to deal with that aren't…” his hands make a juggling motion, as if trying to conjure up the right word. “You. I don't have the bandwidth to deal with you.”
Pathfinder feels his insides twist. That's not how Revenant would act. Revenant always had time for him. Revenant was always happy to be mean. He wouldn't say that. He wouldn't be calm about it either. Why does he sound like that? Why isn't he mean?
Where is the soul?
Didn't he say he was human?
“Why are you talking to me like that?!” Pathfinder's vocalizer shifts octaves on accident. It sounds like when humans cry.
“I mean I don't have time for you. If it isn't obvious, I have bigger problems than your misguided naïvety at the moment.” Revenant growls, keeping control better than he ever had before, despite himself. “Go bother someone else. Anyone else.”
Pathfinder feels his processors hurt. That's not a happy emotion. That's the opposite. This isn't even sad, this is worse than sad.
“Why won't you yell at me?!” Pathfinder’s emotive screen turns black, unable to keep up. “Who are you?! You're not Revenant! My brother would—”
“I was never your brother, Pathfinder.” It speaks with his voice, but it's using it all wrong.
“No! Go back into your other body! The pretty red one, with the pretty red makeup and the yellow eyes!” Pathfinder doesn't understand what he feels, but he needs to find Revenant fast. Pain is awful, and the sooner he sees Revenant again, the sooner it will go away.
“I can't.”
“Yes you can! You could before! Why can't you now?!” Pathfinder tries to stop his vocalizer from getting louder, but he can't help it. Is this what yelling feels like? He doesn't like it.
It locks eyes with Pathfinder, as if seeing something familiar, but Pathfinder takes a step back.
This is bad. This hurts. This is wrong. This isn't—
“It’s a corpse now. Stop crying about it.” Revenant's calm but cruel voice echoes loudly in the hallway.
Pathfinder pulls his hands to his head. Is this crying? Why does it hurt? Is it because he doesn't have tears to shed? Is this what it feels like, to cry with no tears? Why is it so painful? Why can't Revenant go back?
Why did he have to die like this?
He always came back before, why can't he go back again?
“Stop crying, it's not even your problem.” The figure snarls, shrugging with what little defiance remains in his defeated stance. Revenant turns away, walking away slowly.
“Stop!” Pathfinder instinctively reaches out towards the twisted shadow of Revenant. “Don't… Don't leave me!”
Revenant ignores the request, continuing to trudge away soulessly. What happened? When did this happen? Why was there no warning?
Revenant pauses, now having moved well out of reach, letting his head pivot for just a moment so his voice can reach Pathfinder one last time.
“Your brother's dead. Now leave me alone.”
It hits Pathfinder all at once. Something is wrong, forever. Nothing will ever truly be fixed. Maybe it will improve over time, but this won't ever heal. The pretty red scarf; the scary, scuffed up mask; the tearful makeup; the bright yellow eyes… It's all gone. Forever.
Everything is awful, everything is wrong, nothing can fix it, but nobody else seems to realize it.
Not even him.
Pathfinder feels his joints tense up.
Grief.
This is how Mirage talks about his mom when she doesn't remember him. This is how Valkyrie withers when she holds her father's helmet. This is how Bloodhound howls Boone’s name a little louder than all the others.
It's awful.
Is this what humans feel?
There is no body to bury, no memento to hold onto, no opportunity to say goodbye.
When a boat is at the docks, when she’s anchored and floating- do you know what she’s thinking? What the creaking in the wind, the sway of the prow tells us?
It’s restless. A ship is a vessel for travel, and when she’s stuck at the boundary of land and sea, without her crew, there is nowhere to go. Now, it’s never motionless, even when left behind without a captain or a person in the cabin. So she’s still doing something, isn’t she?
It needs to go. Its entire life is the trip, the process of flowing across currents, a migration from here to forever, and to stop that for even a moment? It’s nothing. It’s the cessation of meaning.
But for all this impatience, there is nothing it can do but wait. Even after years, after the sea spray crusts her and the wood of her hull rots, the rope holds her tight, a strangling embrace to a leaden home.
So it continues to creak and break, a wonder of engineering reduced to a floating thing, waiting and waiting impatiently for any release. But this is futile, and as time ticks away yet more, a helpless air falls upon her- her flex and sway in the wind grows less pronounced, settling into something less vibrant. Her wood grows dull, once-proud shine buffed by rain and grit, to an undesirable oldness.
My little sister is a spider lily that I found in the tearoom of an abandoned house. The late summer breeze had blown her in from the meadow.
I took her home and raised her in a pot of marsh water and raw meat, and soon her long spider legs blossomed into human fingers and toes, her petals into dark, scarlet hair that flowed out in strands, like wounded veins. The meat became her flesh, and the water her blood.
Do you hear me as I speak? My sister does not, nor has she ever said a word to me. She doesn't care about human language. She knows only the tongue of stray grudges, of the ghosts that latch on to your legs in long grass, of gold-eyed goblins that feed on your good fortune.
I catch the echo of her laughter, snippets of conversations she has with things I cannot see. Don't worry - they have little interest in you or me. You ask, do I ever want to know what they talk about?
