There was no slow build to the dragonification process, no opportunity to ease into the spread of pain that bled into every nerve. Instead, it was as though her blood had become a gas lamp lit aflame by a single match—and it burned. Everything. Her blood boiled and her lungs smoked and her bones crumbled beneath the fire until they turned to ash, only to rise anew.
To become a dragon was to die painfully and swiftly in shreds torn asunder in order to then be reborn as something everlasting and empty.
Zelda did not recall her time as a dragon.
But she would always remember how it felt to burn.
“Millie? Is everything ok? You were in there for a while.”
Moxxie said after Mille came out of the bathroom. Millie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. “Mills?” Moxxie asked again, stepping towards his wife, sounding concerned. “Is…everything…?”
“Ah’m fine…” Millie finally said, sounding stressed. She was obviously lying.
“Millie…you know that you could tell me anything, right? I’ll understand.”
Millie was silent for a long moment, appearing much more smaller. Her hands trembled as she worked up the courage to finally tell her husband.
“Ah’m pregnant.”
The words hung in the air between them in their small apartment. It took a moment for the words to finally sink in and when it did, Moxxie’s fainted, his body dropping to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“MOXXIE!” Millie exclaimed as her husband fell to the floor. She came down to floor. “Moxxie! Baby, wake up!” She yelled, slapping his cheeks.
After a few seconds, Moxxie finally came to in a daze. “Wha-? What…happened?”
“You fainted, honey!”
“I…” It took a moment for Moxxie to come back to his senses. As soon as he did, he looked at Millie. “You’re…pregnant?” Moxxie asked, whispering that last part.
“Ah am.”
“Oh…Satan!” Moxxie exclaimed. “B-But…we were so careful…how did this happen?” Moxxie’s hands began to shake just has Millie grabbed his hands into hers. “T-This is just…This was just so unplanned? C-Can we even afford to take care of this child? What…”
Moxxie’s voice trailed off as he thought of his own parents. He had very few memories of his mom but he remembered how gentle and kind she was but also wasn’t afraid to stand up to his dad…even when it cost her life in the end. But as he thought of his dad…his eyes grew wide. All those years he was scared of his father, once a very powerful and imposing figure in his life. He learned early on how those who cross him don’t have long futures.
But in this moment? He wasn’t scared of becoming his dad…he was scared of what his dad would do if he found out about his grandchild. Moxxie was Crim’s only son. There was no way that Moxxie would’ve been able to just walk away…especially not after the botched wedding between him and Chaz. And as long as this child was around…none of them were safe; not him. Not Millie. Not her family.
Millie saw Moxxie’s terrified look. “…What do you want to do? I can-!”
“NO!” Moxxie shouted, cutting Millie off. Despite the danger this put them in, Moxxie couldn’t bear the thought of terminating Millie’s pregnancy. Milie couldn’t either; she grew up with a large family and there was a part of her that WANTED a family but she understood that wasn’t a possibility with Moxxie, given who his father was. But she loved Moxxie anyways.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll figure out what to do. Together.”
How strange. Has Piers always owned a lyre? He's surely never bought it, but the lovely instrument is sitting there amongst his other belongings as though its been there all along. The craftsmanship alone tells him that this should be worth a small fortune, made dark polished wood with intricate engravings.
It feels... right in his hands. Natural, even. Like it was made just for him. If he has no song in mind, they seem to come naturally. Working songs, drinking songs, songs of the people of ages long past; ones that haven't been sung in a very, very long time. They wish to be remembered.
In exchange, all that is asked is a story; share a memory of rebellion.
(xoxo fae presents from @swcrdheroed)
The odd instrument is on his bed sitting directly upon his pillow as though waiting for him. When he sees it his heart races for a moment, rushing to check the locks on all the apartment windows, then his closet and under the bed. The locks remain fastened, the closet untouched since last used and the only residents under his bed are some dust bunnies awaiting the next time he has energy to clean under there. He knows the front door was locked and nothing in the apartment is moved. Had someone been there he's certain they would've taken something even if he considers most of his belongings worthless. They're worthwhile to somebody and worth a disturbing amount online.
When all is clear he returns to the instrument, picking it up to investigate it. It appears old yet in pristine condition as though it were made just yesterday. The engravings on it look like flames with the bottom akin to a birds head, a blue gem where the birds eye ought to be. Is there something familiar to this design? In his hands it feels as though it simply demands to be played. Almost thoughtlessly he strums the chords, the sound making him think of songs he's never known. The more he plays though the more the memories become personal.
The Birth of the Yell Raiser
He's young again barely sixteen, Macro Cosmos employees and members of the Leaue's Board are walking through Spikemuth on their way to his house. He can see the disgust on the Board members' faces as they look over his family's city, his city. One pulls a handkerchief out to cover their mouth as though they'll catch something just from being here. He runs to tell his dad of their approach. His father is glassy eyed and distant Piers worries momentarily that he hasn't been heard. But his father sighs, tells him to take Marnie and wait outside, that he'll handle it. There's a gnawing dread in Piers' stomach but he does as he's told. Standing by the front door with Marnie and glaring at the group as they are welcomed to his home. He hands Marnie to James asking him to watch her for a little bit and promises Marnie that everything is okay.
Then he returns home, sneaking to the window to listen in on the conversation. Anyone else would be unable to make out a word being said. But he can hear them just fine. "We just don't think the gym is prospering as it could be. You've been a fine gym leader all these years. But since the death of your dear wife..."
The mention of his mother makes Piers' heart drop and his hands turn to fists. It's barely been a few weeks, and they're using her death as if it were just a bargaining chip in their game? "You haven't been the same. Don't you think the gym deserves better?"
Piers' peers up into the window, trying to get a look at his dad. His dad's head hangs low as the employees stand around him, and the board members sit about the living room table. It's a claustrophobic scene. Piers has to strain to hear his father, who is practically whispering. "We're doing fine. I'm... I'm going to pass the reins to my eldest. He's strong..."
"Cadell. We need the gym open by the end of the month. If the gym isn't open again you're going to lose your place among the major league anyway. Besides, doesn't he deserve better? If you hand the gym over to a new city you and your family can leave this place. Wouldn't you rather go somewhere more comfortable than here? This city... You know it doesn't have long."
"I... I know..." Piers doesn't hesitate hearing his father's almost silent admission. His hands shove him away from the wall, his feet carry him before he even realizes he's moving. He hears others asking him what's wrong, what's going on, as he turns the corner of the house heading straight for the front door. The door slamming open, unbothering to close it to the on lookers outside.
"We're not leaving!" His normally meek voice carries loud enough that it nearly echoes through all of Spikemuth. Everyone in the leaving room turns to look at him. Even his father's head is raised in his direction. "The gym ain't moving, we're not leaving and all a you can go fuck yourselves!"
At the mention of the Gym moving gasps and whispers erupt from the small gathered crowd outside. Nervous glances are shared among the board members. Piers father speaking his voice quiet, even and exhausted yet still commanding. "Piers..."
"All a you have already taken enough from this city!! You're not taking our gym, too!" Piers ignores his father's warning as he steps forward into the room. Sounds of agreement erupt from the crowd outside.
"We're not trying to take anything away, we're just trying to-"
"BULLSHIT! You guys have been trying to kill this city for years! Well I'm not going to let you! We're not gonna let you! This is our city, not yours and if I gotta I'll keep the likes of you out of it myself!" Without realizing what he was doing his hand wraps around the head of an empty bottle sitting atop the trash and the bottle is leaving his hand again thrown directly at the group before he can think twice of what he was doing. The group all duck leaving the bottle to crash and shatter against the wall behind them. The league members sitting jump to their feet as does Piers' father while the Macros Cosmos employees put themselves in front of the board making a barricade between them and the child.
"Ellis!" Piers' dad voice is raised amongst the commotion brewing outside as people begin yelling in agreement to Piers' stance.
"Cadell! Control your kid!" One of the members closest to his father snaps. A Macro Cosmos employee grabs the member, whispering that it'd be better if they left now before things got out of hand. Piers hands grip into tighter fists nails digging into his fists. He steps aside as the group begin making their way out of the house. Macro Cosmos employees having to hold back the gathered crowd who have nearly turned to a mob yelling insults and a few even joining in on throwing things at the suited men. The sight emboldens Piers and despite the way his father grabs his arm he pulls himself free following the group out.
"And stay the fuck out of my house, out of our whole city even! We won't let you take anything from anymore!" Piers following them yelling the entire time with the mob now following behind him throwing rocks, garbage, anything they can get their hands on and yelling in agreement. He only stops when he sees the familiar stage of the gym. Separating from the group to climb atop it while some follow him others continue to chase the group from their home. He grabs the mic usually used for announcing turns in battles and turns it on to carry his voice through all of Spikemuth.
"Everyone hear that?! This is our city and no posh bastards' are gonna take it from us!" Cheers of agreement and encouragement ring out through the crowd as adrenaline rushes through the young boys bloodstream.
"If they wanna bleed it dry we're gonna make 'em fight for every drop a blood they think they want! Whose with me!" It's the first time he hears the roar of the crowd, over time the crowds would grow far bigger. But none would ever be as deafening, as meaningful as this one. This was more then the cheering of fans, these were the cheers of the start of a rebellion, the creation of a new leader to Spikemuth. The birth of the Yell Raiser himself.di
In which Raimundo struggles with returning to the Temple after once again trapping Wuya in the puzzle box, and Dojo is a wonderful grandpa dragon.
Raimundo had been back at the Temple for a couple of weeks, and it was… tough. He knew they didn’t trust him, even if they wanted to (in Clay and Kimiko’s cases). He knew he’d burned those bridges. Others were more open about this mistrust (Omi) and disappointment (Fung). But he deserved it. He deserved it all. He could stick it out, because he had to, because he needed to fix it. He needed to make up for everything he’d done and everything he’d almost let happen.
“I believe we ought to be taking watch. Raimundo has stolen Shen Gong Wu from us before and delivered it into evil’s waiting hands!” Omi’s voice from the kitchen. Rai froze outside the door as ice slipped into his belly.
“Hey, now—” And that was Dojo, sounding reproachful, but he was interrupted by Fung.
“A resourceful idea, young one. But we must show trust in Raimundo. The vault password has already been changed. Perhaps he will betray us again, but if we do not let him try to make amends, he will never be able to readapt to Temple life.”
Perhaps he will betray us again. It had been said so… matter-of-factly. Like it was within the realms of possibility. As if he wouldn’t give anything to take back what he’d done. Like he hadn’t learned from his mistakes. His heart pounded; he could feel the blood in his ears. Of course he was trying to make amends! He’d been busting his ass for weeks just trying to show everyone how sorry he was, trying to fix what he’d done.
“I still believe we should all be on our guard!” Omi insisted.
Rai swallowed hard. He wanted to be angry, but he wasn’t. How could he be? Omi was right. He left without a sound, their words crawling along his skin with every step.
—
As dusky evening turned to inky black night, the darkness found Rai sitting in a low branch of a tree out on the Temple grounds. He stared into the shadows, unseeing, feeling too much and too little, like his bones were hollow and his mind was full. He could feel the uneven bark digging into him through his robes, pressing uncomfortable grooves into his skin. Who cared? He deserved much worse. His hands were busy, tugging at the sash from his robes, twisting it between anxious fingers, knotting and pulling and untying and repeating.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, but without the presence of mind to actually turn and look, he simply sat there, not knowing who it was and not caring. That was, until there was a voice.
“What’s eatin’ ya, kiddo?”
Rai didn’t even spare Dojo a glance. “Nothing,” he answered, voice dull, flat. His hands kept fidgeting. No, he didn’t expect Dojo to buy it, wasn’t even making an effort to be convincing, but he also wasn’t expecting to be pressed on the subject.
“Ahhh, c’mon. It’s okay. Just give them some more time, they’ll come round. You just saved the world, kid, you can–”
“Saved it from who?” The words burst from Rai unbidden. He screwed up the sash of his robes and threw it into the darkness, a wind picking up around them as he finally turned to look at Dojo. “Huh? Why’d the world need saving? It was my mess!”
Dojo was not fazed by Raimundo’s raised voice. “And you cleaned it up. Good as new.”
Rai laughed, but the sound was hollow and his voice cracked.
“The world that’s been here for billions of years… everything in it. Everyone. You guys, my family. I nearly destroyed it all. I messed it all up, Dojo, I messed it all up. There’s no ‘good as new’. I can’t take back what I did, they’re never gonna trust me again, and I can’t fix it!”
He jumped down from the branch, landing lithely on the grass below and gripping at his hair, his entire body trembling. “I can’t fix it. What the hell am I supposed to do, dude?! I wanna go home! I wanna go home, but hell if I can face them after what I did! I’m not gonna tell my mãe that I nearly got her killed because my feelings were hurt. God!” His voice broke; he strode away, pushing his fists into his eyes, his jaw clenched and his shoulders tight. Dojo stared after him.
“Not like I ever belonged here anyway,” Rai murmured, voice quieter now. He’d found out months ago. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered so much if he was better, if he could keep up with the others, if he hadn’t betrayed everyone, but, well, now it mattered more than ever. Now it tugged at every nerve in his body, demanding to be known, reminding him every second that he shouldn’t even be here in the first place. Of course he was the weak link. If destiny existed, that was his. To fall behind.
The little dragon had been quiet a long time, but now he hopped up onto the low stone wall stretching out in front of them and squinted over at Raimundo in the darkness. “You belong here just as much as the others. You know that.”
Rai didn’t even have it in him to laugh at that. He just looked at Dojo, shaking his head, surprised that the dragon was still bothering to lie. “You don’t believe that. You know I don’t, you and Fung know that. I never belonged here.”
“Why not?” Dojo demanded, moving closer along the wall even as Rai began to pace agitatedly beside the tree.
“The Wuxing Elements! I’m not an idiot, dude, I read the scrolls. All of them. Earth, water, fire, wood, metal. You know what isn’t on the list? Me. I’m not even one of them, I never was, and we all just pretended! We just… we just faked it, for months, and wondered why I can’t keep up with everyone. And hell, while I’m at it – Wuya! Why me? She got in my head, dude, do you know what that feels like?!” When Dojo didn’t answer, Rai ploughed on. “It’s fucked. It feels like I’ll never even be safe in my own stupid brain ever again. She got in my head and she saw it all, and I wish I’d never gone with her and I’m sorry about it, but why does part of me miss her?! What the hell is wrong with me, Dojo?!”
He deflated, the fight leaving him as quickly as it’d arrived. His chest heaved. Sagging under the weight of guilt and grief, Rai leaned against the wall, head hanging, the stones cold beneath his touch. “Just forget it, alright? Go back inside, dude.”
Dojo was silent a while longer; Rai could feel the dragon’s eyes on him, just processing everything he’d just said.
He wasn’t sure how long they remained in silence. Didn’t matter. His hair fell into his face as his head hung, and he didn’t lift a hand to fix it, just scraping his nails against the stone instead, again and again. And then there was Dojo, crawling over the top of the wall until he reached Rai, perching himself on Rai’s wrist and glaring up at him.
“Alright, kid, you know what? That’s it. Enough. You made a mistake. A big one. Big deal, alright! Who hasn’t?! You’re a child who has saved the world a handful of times. So you nearly broke it once, so what? Doesn’t even tip the scales. Don’t interrupt an ancient dragon,” he added sharply as Rai opened his mouth to argue.
Rai’s fists clenched, his breathing picking up, heart pounding. He couldn’t listen to this. He couldn’t listen to Dojo defending him, pretending like he had any right to be here, like he ever deserved to come back after what he’d done. He couldn’t stand it.
“You’re not a Wuxing elemental. Okay. Maybe you’ll always feel kinda out of place with the others. Maybe you would’ve felt that anyway. Can’t change it. But you are one of my kids, and I’ll be damned straight to the Yin Yang world for five thousand years if I’m gonna let you get away with talking to yourself like this.”
Quiet settled. What was Rai supposed to say to that? He didn’t deserve Dojo’s love and support, but it still meant everything. He had no response and no will left for arguing. When Rai finally turned to look at Dojo, it was with tears brimming in his eyes.
“... I just wanna go home, Dojo.”
He could watch the dragon’s heart break in real time, and it seemed so strange, that a creature so old could still care so deeply about him, of all things. But here was the proof right in front of him.
Dojo sighed and climbed up Rai’s arm to wrap loosely around his neck, nuzzling against his shoulder. “Then I’ll take you home,” he said simply. Like it was nothing. Like Rai deserved a break, like he could just show his face back in Rio after everything he’d done.
It was as if the dragon could sense his thoughts, and he wrapped a little tighter around Rai as the tears finally began to slip down the young monk’s cheeks. “You really think you don’t belong here? You left us for a reason, I know why you did. But, kid, you came back for a reason. Set saving the world aside - you coming back? Owning up to what you did? That’s bravery like I haven’t seen in decades. The ghost of Dashi said well done, and he meant it. So don’t you tell me you don’t belong here.”
Rai wiped fiercely at his tears, heart pounding as his mind filled with everything that Dojo was saying. Instead of saying anything, he lifted his arms to hug the dragon closer, pressing his face into his scales. Dojo settled in Rai’s arms, squeezing him in return, patting his shoulder.
“I’ll take you home tomorrow. Take some time off. Training will still be here in a week or two.”
And finally, the fight in him well and truly gone, Rai just nodded.
—
They slept outside that night.
Something about actually going back into the Temple now that he’d let all of those thoughts loose just didn’t sit right with Rai. He couldn’t face it, sleeping in his tiny little room between Kimiko and Clay as if nothing had happened. Dojo hadn’t tried to convince him. Say what you will about that dragon, but he could pick his battles.
Instead, Dojo simply grew to his much larger size, dwarfing the stone wall beside them and curling up beside the tree with Raimundo held in the crook of his elbow. Being outside always helped Rai to clear his head - he suspected it was something to do with being bathed in his element, all this fresh air making him feel stronger. Because whatever he was, whatever he’d done, wherever he did or didn’t belong, he still had the air. He still had his powers.
It was surprisingly comfortable, curled up with an enormous dragon, and whether it was the fact that he’d offloaded so much crap or the thought of returning home tomorrow, Rai fell asleep faster than he had for weeks. He didn’t even notice Dojo staying awake to keep watch over the most wayward of all his kids. The one who needed him the most.
rubble shifts as thor digs and pushes his way out of its trappings. dust and dirt cover him, clinging to his hair and cape, when he at last emerges from the destruction. blood trails from his forehead to his cheek, the corner of his mouth to his chin, with few cuts along his arms and jaw. they bring no pain — even if they did, his injuries aren’t a priority. finding rey is. it is hardly subtle, pushing great chunks of stone and feeling the shake of their weight meeting the ground, but there isn’t anyone around to hear it. no one will be alerted to his arrival, no one will be coming to attack. he sees neither ren nor palpatine in the open space around him. thor can only assume his suspicions are correct; while he had been busy fighting the knights of ren, she had been busy bringing to an end this war, and the sith, once and for all. pride would swell in his chest, a smile stretching ear to ear, if not for the lack of her presence.
“rey?”
calling out receives no response, his voice echoing in his ears. he tries again, louder, only to be met with the same silence. all is so quiet and still. . . has she left? does she follow the fleet in their victorious abandon? it wouldn’t be an unreasonable conclusion. she has no idea he is here, that he was coming at all. none had answered his transmissions. they wouldn’t think to wait. but he must be certain before he takes his own leave.
still surveying the ruined citadel around him, thor walks, turning his back to the open space. there are so many destroyed columns, statues. rows upon rows of seating for spectators. it must have held thousands. tearing it all down must have been no small feat. just how far did she push herself to achieve it? she must be exhausted. drained. he knows her power and all she is capable of, but this— he’s never seen such a display from her. it is only natural that he worries. it etches onto his face, alongside confusion.
there are no stragglers. there are no bodies. hardly any evidence that anyone had been here at all.
thor carries himself along, boots scuffing along cracked and dirtied ground. a fallen column to his back obscures the stretch of empty flooring. through a squint he eyes his surroundings. stormbreaker swings lazily once at his side as he sighs, turns— at last spots another person. the column ends; nothing is between him and them. just as dirty and bloody as he is, collapsed. . . familiar. lovingly familiar. painfully. then agonizingly.
what he sees makes no sense. despite the fact that his thoughts stall, his brain struggling to process what he sees, his heart races. the tightness in his chest takes his breath away. a freeze he’s never felt runs through his veins. stormbreaker slips from his grasp and thuds loudly against the ground; he doesn’t even feel the loosening of his fingers. though his breaths falter, their pace is quick. time around him distorts— it feels as though he stands there for an eternity, trying to understand the sight before him. mere seconds pass before he finds that he is moving again, pulled toward her. though the last thing he wants is confirmation in this moment. closing in, there is no mistaking what he knows he sees; rey, as beautiful as ever but so still, so pale— so lifeless— that it churns his stomach.
shouldn’t he be screaming? thor remembers his mother, loki, heimdall. all his grief and rage and agony had torn their way from his throat without him willing it to. nothing comes out now. only his breaths, stuttering, catching in his chest as he drops to his knees beside her. he sees himself scooping her up into his arms. another lurch hits the pit of his stomach; she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t react at all. she is cold to the touch and limp. only then does he notice how his vision blurs, how his chin and lips wobble threateningly. there is no fighting the tears as they fall. they only worsen as he turns her in his arms to face him, looking down at her. . . the shaking breath that leaves him is so loud it nearly startles him.
thought returns to him beyond blind sensation, and in the next instant, his voice. it squeezes around the knot in his throat. “rey,” he manages— barely. it shakes so heavily, his voice— pinches and shrinks, he hardly sounds like himself. “rey, look at me. you— you need to look at me. you did it. you won. you’ve—“ a droplet falls to her face. when he shifts to cradle her cheek, wiping it away, it streaks through the dirt. still no reaction. “at last, it’s over. this. . . this is our chance at peace, our chance to be happy, so you can’t—“
the body— rey is hugged closer to him, and he feels the easily recognizable crawl in his chest. it claws at him. the sobs, the screams that he’d expected to pour from him moments ago begin to build. thor holds them off as best he can. . . but still, the cries break free. his face crumbles beneath the weight of his grief. why? why is he here again? after all he has lost she was meant to be the one thing he was allowed to keep. he was meant to watch her grow older. he’d envisioned it, yearned for it, allowed himself to be hopeful that he would get to watch it all unfold. he’d seen them fighting side by side, starting a family, joining as one with the promise of forever. all for nought. all to end up back here. he will always end up back here. you are a destroyer, odinson. all that which he touches will be ripped away from him. how terribly unfair. what has he done to deserve this?
has he not lost enough?
“please,” he whispers, leaning to press his lips to her temple. idly, his fingers stroke through her hair, his opposite hand urging her closer. each passing second is worse than the last. to know she won’t return his embrace. . . any physical pain, however tremendous, would be more easily endured. he would prefer it. “please, come back to me. i don’t. . . what do i do without you? how must i— when i’ve not had the chance to make it right? you can’t. you can’t. don’t do this to me. this is not how your story was meant to end.” he was supposed to be here to protect her, to ensure she would discover what life can be away from the fight. he failed. he always fails. what kind of god is he?
“i love you,” leaves him in a cry. “i love you so much. i have always loved you. i should have told you. so many times, i should have told you. i am so sorry— for allowing my cowardice to best me. if you. . . if you just come back to me, i will never make that mistake again. i promise you.”
of course he knows. part of him is all too aware that his wishes won’t come true. how could they possibly? again and again he has had to endure this. people don’t come back. death is eternal— trickster magic aside, and even that must eventually end. sitting amongst the ruin, stroking her hair and face, weeping, he knows that if he accepts this— that the love of his life, the other half of his very soul is gone— there will be nothing. no joy, not a moment of peace from his torment, nothing to inspire him to push forward. each day, for thousands of years to come, will be seeped in misery once again. that is, if he can find the will to leave this damned planet, and he doesn’t think he wants to. if rey is dead, why should he do anything but sit here, holding her, until any of the many burning & collapsing ships crush them? through a shaking sob, ducking his head to press to her chest, he thinks he will do just that. hold her and mourn and wait.
confessions of love and apologies for his shortcomings pass his lips again and again. it is almost rhythmic, how he gently rocks her, whispers in her ear knowing she can’t hear him. he doesn’t know how long he sits there, holding her, before he finally stills, before the cries stop. when the tears stop flowing and he quiets, there is only the sound of his breathing and surrounding explosions— the falling ships outside. each blow is muffled. were they not, he may not have caught it. . . a very faint, slow beat, a gentle thrum beneath the surface of her skin. thor’s head lifts, and he stares down at her. neither disbelief nor confusion cross his expression; he doesn’t dare to let himself hope. probably, he is hearing what he wants to hear. loss after loss has begun to weigh him down. . . perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that his mind threatens to slip.
could he merely be imagining the, however slight, gradual return of color to her pallor? could he be imagining what appears to be a slow rise and fall in her chest? it stalls, she ceases again. . . but after a few torturous moments of nothing, it comes again. thor’s eyes widen, and pushing through the shock, the hand on her cheek travels down. fear increases tenfold, but he has to know— gently, his fingers press to her throat, and his own breathing finds pause. hope creeps up on him regardless of his attempt to keep it at bay, and for once. . . he doesn’t regret it. just beneath the pads of his fingers, a pulse. weak, but there nonetheless.
she’s not dead. rey is not dead. not yet. relief doesn't wash over him. if that is to remain true, if she is to survive, he must move. thor has only a handful of seconds to shed his willingness to stay just where he is, to let go of his desire to succumb to his pain. when he seems to return to himself, he glances around the citadel in a daze as if searching for an answer. amongst the rubble and the still breaking foundation of the citadel, he sees it. stormbreaker. his gaze returns to her once more, and as gently as he can so as not to jostle her, thor shifts, lifting her fully into his arms and rising to his feet.
“you’re alright, i'm here, i've got you,” he says hurriedly, his voice finally even. supporting her weight in one arm, his free hand opens, calls the axe. in just a second he feels the swift arrival of the handle, closes his fingers around it. he doesn’t look away from her face. “you’re going to be alright.” echoing through the vast emptiness is the slam of the axe in the ground; in the next second, they are engulfed in the light of the bifrost.
Little establishing drabble for Emil and Iovita! Prompt from here.
While those who passed him by huddled down into their coats while their thick, woollen beanies hid the tops of their heads from sight, the demon required no such thing. He had never been one to feel the cold; some who dared to raise their heads to the bitter cold touch stared in amazement as they saw the man without so much as a shirt pass them by - though perhaps they also stared at the various tattoos, scars and brands about his torso or just due to the fact that they had never seen a man so beautiful nor brazen in their life.
(Every pair of eyes on him only inflated his ego further.)
Lights emanated from various buildings: clubs, pubs, bars and hotels which were open into the early hours of the morning, bringing light to a city which would otherwise only see the light of the moon and the stars until the sun peeked over the horizon. One of these establishments was his own Brimstone, a club from which he had already walked quite far.
As much as he loved the business which he had built from the ground up, it was difficult to resist the urge to see what else was happening about the city, what other characters populated its streets on any given night.
‘Halt, demon.’
Not even 10 minutes on the streets and it seemed like he’d already found someone of interest.
Emil looked in the direction of the voice, making no effort to turn his body also.
Standing outside the Hotel Triumph, some distance from the porte-cochere, was an individual near as tall as he was, and that’s where the similarities ended.
Theirs was hair of flowing blond, swept behind their back so that their pointed ears were revealed to all. Though Emil’s eyes were crimson in colour and comparable to a feline, he was at least capable of blending in; this individual had eyes of pure green, their pupils and irises different shades to what would typically be the whites of their eyes, beneath which a second set of eyes were being held firmly shut. They held a wooden staff - currently held out as though to stop Emil in his approach - and wore robes of white, though none of this was the strangest part of their appearance, for a halo made of light circled their head and sets of wings grew from their back.
Damn angels were lucky playing dress up seemed to have become popular among some humans as of late.
‘This business is the property of the Heavens; only angels and well-meaning humans are allowed on or near the premises.’
Emil smirked.
You needn’t be so hasty, he thought.
‘And if I decided not to heed your words of warning?’ he asked instead. Emil stepped towards the angel, who did nothing as much as flinch away, and put a finger beneath the staff. He tilted it upwards and inspected the emerald - or so it seemed to be - which adorned the end of the twisting, decorative wood. ‘If I were to instead set foot inside your establishment, what would you do then?’
‘Then I would have no choice but to obliterate you. None would think anything of one missing from your ranks.’
Emil laughed. The deep chuckle would be enough to make most think twice. Not this one, apparently. ‘Obliterate me? Do you have any idea who I am?’
The angel scowled.
How unbecoming.
Emil smirked.
‘You are a foul beast born of the depths of Hell. You have no place anywhere other than burning in the fires out of which you crawled.’
‘Ouch,’ said Emil sarcastically. ‘I will tell you who I am, so that you might boast later to your angel companions - if your kind are capable of something such as boasting - or rather, give them a warning when you crawl back to your home for assistance.
‘I am known as Aemilius Selvaggio, second of my name, Demon Prince of Treachery - the deepest circle of Hell, if you are so uninformed.’
‘I did not ask for your life story,’ the angel sneered. ‘I warned you to leave if you value your life.’
‘You do not understand, do you, angel?’ Emil knocked the staff away - not hard enough so the angel was no longer in possession of it - and stepped towards its owner, close enough as to take their chin in his hand, long nails wrapping about their chin as he looked down upon them. ‘Many demons fight and kill to find their position in a royal family. They will go so far as to kill newly born imps to get what they desire. I required no such thing. I was born into my role, beating back and taking the lives of my adversaries, of my very own brothers and sisters, to become the next in line for the throne.
‘I am not any demon, angel.’ Emil’s nails dug into their skin, sharpened fangs on display as he smirked. ‘I am the strongest demon alive.’
‘A demon is naught but an angel with his power revoked,’ retorted the angel. ‘Even the strongest of demons has but a fraction of the power of a guardian of Heaven.’
‘A guardian of Heaven? Is that what you claim to be?’ Emil then feigned hurt as he said, ‘And you didn’t even give me your name with your introduction.’
‘I am as much a guardian of Heaven as you are a Prince of Treachery. As for my name, I owe you no such thing - I am sure you would only aim to use it against me.’
And as though with perfect timing, a man called from the hotel side of the porte-cochere, ‘Iovita, would you mind giving us a hand?’
Again, the angel scowled.
‘Well, Iovita,’ said Emil as he let go of the angel, ‘it seems you have a busy night. It would be terribly cruel to keep you from your business, would it not? Oh, and you need not worry about me; I simply run a nightclub down the road. Come by Brimstone if you ever decide you need to… let loose.’
‘Not in your dreams,’ Iovita replied through gritted teeth. ‘And demon, I want to make sure you are aware of this: if you ever return to this place, if you attempt to set foot in the Hotel Triumph, I will kill you.’
Steve’s hands rub at his eyes, dry and tired, glazed over from staring blankly upwards at his ceiling. There’s a soft sight when he lets his hands droop back down to his chest, fingers intertwined. He turns his head towards his bedside table, his eyes narrowing just enough to let him see the clock resting on his bedside table: 3:23 am. Wow, two whole minutes had passed since he checked five minutes ago. He can’t help but roll his eyes then, letting his head fall back into its usual position on his pillow, gaze pulled up once more to the ceiling above him. Steve had the whole thing practically memorized, the bumps of uneven paint and the small holes where he thought it might be funny to stick a pencil into his own ceiling and see how long it took his mother to find out when he was a kid. Didn’t take long, really. Only a couple of days before he heard her screaming. Funny how you remember things like that when you’re stuck with, what, insomnia? Guess that’s what it’d be called. It’d been two whole days since Steve last was able to close his eyes and open them again only when his alarm went off, not with… whatever this was.
Glancing at his clock, hoping an hour had passed him by when it was only a handful of minutes, leaving him to stare at the shadows of trees playing across his room. Sometimes a dull ache, settled deep in his chest, would distract him long enough he could squeeze an extra half hour out, if he were lucky. He’d take his pulse, worried if something was wrong, but the third time his BPM read a solid 75 he figured he couldn’t keep his attention on it any longer. Probably nothing, he’d reassure himself. Other nights, exactly at this one, kept him up with thoughts running through his head, the sudden sound of wind or the crack of a branch or the sound of a bird nearly making Steve jump out of his skin and reach for the bat tucked away under his bed. A hidden weapon, about the only thing that made him feel safe in this damn house.
Steve would like to think he had felt safe as a kid, able to run back home to his parents waiting for him to ask about his day. Like to think that, maybe, his parents had missed him just as much as he missed them when they went away for their fourth ‘business’ trip in a year. Liked to imagine the notes left around for him were from his mother, too. Not from the regular babysitter they paid to watch him until he was too old to need one. He was becoming a man, they argued. He could take care of himself. Here’s some money, order pizza. Here’s our number, call us if it’s an emergency. For their credit, his mom did pick up regularly for a while. Quiet voice asking what was wrong, telling him it was fine. He’d be fine. It was just a few days. They were busy, couldn’t talk. He’d call again later, just to see if they answered. They seemed to stop bothering when he was a freshman. Leaving him entirely alone in their two-floor, multi-roomed mansion.
A soft groan interrupts Steve’s reminiscing. A glance at the clock revealed a whole, beautiful minute had gone on by and he was decidedly not in the mood to lay in his bed any longer. He kicked off the sheets, far more unceremoniously than his mother would have liked, and left them in a tangled heap as he swung himself off his bed. It’s warm feet on cold wood, no reason to turn up the heat if he was the only one in the house. A slight shiver runs it’s way through him as he exits his room, a soft creak of hinges as he trudged down the hall and padded down his stairs. Now, exercise wasn’t recommended right before bed, Steve knew that much. Kept you up too long, something about heartbeats and core temperature. He didn’t need to remember the details. Just needed to remember that it was a bad idea if he hoped to get in some blissful moments of rest before school. No, this probably wouldn’t help, but… maybe this time was different. Maybe in some screwed up way, he needed his heart pumping to relax. He was told stuff like that was good for stress, at least in the old books he’d sneak a glance at in the school library. Not that he’d ever say he was stressed, of course, he’d never admit it, but it was good advice to give to other people.
The house is ever quiet as Steve quietly makes his way through his house. It was big enough for a few ‘laps’, he’d try to tell himself. Bigger than any other house he’d been in, at least, so walking from one end of it to the other had to count for something. Steve crosses his arms in front of him, almost hugging himself against the chill that’s settled on the house since he first crawled into bed. It’s a rehearsed path he takes, weaving himself through halls and doorways, slowly around furniture, careful not to touch. It’s all set up perfectly, you know. Floor show quality, stuff you’d find printed in a Homes & Gardens magazine. Set up just as his parents had left it when they left over a week ago. Some dust had settled on it since then from lack of living in the space. Maybe he should clean it. Might get his mind off things. Maybe if he just kept on moving, maybe if he focused more on his legs moving, how they moved, how the cold title felt against his swiftly numbing toes, he could keep the rest of the thoughts away. Thoughts like, ‘ jeeze, this house is big. Quiet. Empty. No one here but you. Creepy, right? Hey, your house isn’t too far away from that old lab, is it? Close enough to where Little Byers was taken. Right next to where Barb was. You remember Barb, right? Of course you do. How could you forget? Anytime you glance at that pool, you remember. Especially on nights like this where those cheap lawn lights you placed all around your backyard, placed a few yards into the treeline, can’t light it up enough to keep your skin from crawling. You remember the way she was. Not part of your ‘crowd’, you might have once said. Didn’t want to be there, you could tell, but what did it really matter to you? You had what you wanted, Nancy Wheeler all to your damn self. Was it your fault she went and got dragged under your pool, eaten by some fucking beast? No, not directly. But Nancy told you something was wrong. Felt it. Barb had wanted to go, too. Never wanted to be there. But you didn’t care. ’
And it’s too late to care now.
Not even as the guilt of it eats at you, letting some poor girl die in your backyard, covering up her murder for some government goons until your ex had the balls to do what you never could. Not even as you remember what that thing was like, all teeth and claw and bone, a disgusting maw that didn’t seem to give a shit if you attacked it with a nailed bat that, oh right, your ex had made to fight it off while you decided to sit pretty in your empty house.
Pathetic.
Steve’s journey had led him towards the kitchen where he takes a moment to glance at the clock on the microwave. New, sleek, a recent purchase your mother asked your dad to make. Digital input, fancy new clock, an automatic beep that let you know when your popcorn was done. Made him sick, looking at it. Not enough time had ticked on by, leaving him hopelessly alone. Alone. God, he hated that thought. Alone in this stupid house. There’s a moment of frustration in which Steve nearly instinctively grabs for the phone attached to the nearby kitchen wall, his thumb tracing across the buttons as he wonders which of his friends he should call. Henderson? Nah, not him. Couldn’t let him hear Big Bad Steve was having some trouble sleeping. Besides, his mother would probably blow a gasket if she heard Dustin on the phone. Ringing would probably wake her up anyway. Robin? No, he knew she had work later that day too. She’d probably kill him if he woke her up for something like this, a non-emergency. Might even tease him for it. Nance? She might understand, she was the one to come to him when she was scared. Worried about Barb. Wondered what happened to her, demanding to know. Nancy had come to him in the first place, trusting him. He was halfway through her number, still memorized, when he suddenly stopped, his eyes widening as if he remembered something.
The phone seemed to protest the incomplete digits, its dial tone dronning on until he hung it back up on the receiver.
What the hell was he doing, fumbling with his phone like this? It was nearly 4 am on a Friday. He couldn’t do this shit. People were sleeping and god he was fine. He was fine. Of course he was fine. He’d always been fine. He’d always be fine.
He can’t help but shake his head, as if that action alone would clear out the thoughts in his head. Shove away that bad idea once and for all. He couldn’t just call someone when he was feeling like this, like if he dared glance out that backyard window he’d see something standing there looking back. No, no, damnit, they were probably dealing with the exact same thing. Fear of some ugly science experiment gone wrong.
It’s too late to be dealing with this shit, Steve thought, taking a moment to rub again at his eyes, blurry from their lack of sleep. His body craved the warm embrace of his blankets and, for once, he thought he had a pretty good idea in just walking himself back up his stairs and curling up in his bed like he’d done every other night, shoving down whatever unease he felt until his room lit up with morning light. A good plan, he thought, as he finally made his way back up the stairs and padded back down the hall.
Steve shut his door behind him. It would be morning soon.
your character is exploring the hills of limgrave when they come across a particular cave. inside, there are neither monsters nor any treasure in sight. in fact, the only thing that can be found within the burrow is a single bloodstain at the cavern’s center...
ⓧ: touch bloodstain
IMMEDIATE AND FRENZIED is the sound of a struggle which resonates from the three manifesting crimson apparitions. one hooded figure holds their gagged captive from behind - pinning both arms at their sides - while another stands before them, pressing down on their shoulder with one hand and brandishing an ornate dagger in the other. “quit squirmin’, you fuckin’ milksop!” he demands, ardently bashing the blunt end of the blade against his victim’s skull and thereafter causing their resistance to diminish somewhat. “hurry up with it, malv! i can’t hold him like this for much longer!” running a hand across the length of his blade, the assailant admits, “just a moment. heh... i wanna relish that final glint o’ fear in his eyes, y'know? th’ tremblin’ of a lamb before th’ slaughter...” he spends a few breathless seconds flaunting the keen edge of his dagger just a few inches away from widened, panic-filled gaze, until finally...
whilst slightly muffled by the gag, an ensuing scream of agony rings well beyond the cave walls. “f-fuck, that’s loud!” the more meek of the two aggressors sputters, though his hold on the victim before him remains as sturdy as he can muster in this harrowing moment. as ruby ichor begins to spurt and flow from where there was once an eye, the other assailant prepares for the second half of his work, chastising his partner, “don’t lose yer grip, dumbass! velar’s gonna kill us if we mess this job up!” before their writhing, blood-drenched quarry can even begin to recover from the infliction, the dagger is driven once more into the remaining eye, eliciting an even louder scream of anguish in the process. there is less of a reaction from his two persecutors this time, but one remains unnerved while the other appears fairly satisfied with his work. as the former’s grip finally loosens, their victim can do naught but fall forward, writhing weakly in place as both incisions incessantly ooze red.
“i... n-now what?” comes a query from one, only to be met with the other’s disinterest now that his handiwork is complete, “leave him to, uh... ‘flounder in the dark for all time’, yeah? those was his own words. wanted him alive, i guess? no skin off my nose. let’s flit.” with that, the visions begotten of the bloodstain finally dissipate, leaving behind naught but a deafening silence for the unwarranted spectator to endure.
