leave me bleeding (it was years ago) by sunlitlemonade for @ashrayus
He was not in his Red Hood get-up and the boyish face, rigid and despondent, was unfamiliar. But his eyes glistened blue and curls framed his jaw softly.
Something instinctual decreed that this was Jason.
A 27 year old Dick Grayson encounters 17 year old Lost Days Era Jason.
Okay but the small rituals that carry through on habit between Mollymauk and Caleb.
The bowls of soup or plates of food placed next to Caleb as he reads in a corner of an inn or tavern. The small distractions to keep Jester out of his hair as Caleb slouches further into himself with a book, with ink and paper and new ideas growing from small embers. The way Mollymauk would quietly reposition an inkwell or pen or book that was too close to the edge of a beer-stained table or someone's cup because Caleb still had the habits from school that came with wide desks and few distractions.
Caleb sending Frumpkin to Mollymauk when the tiefling hadn't been seen for a few hours with the rest of them running errands through town. Acting as the audience for Mollymauk's wilder stories and lies-- the grand fabrications of a past that both of them knew was impossible. But Mollymauk liked the audience and Caleb liked fairytales.
The soft "you are full of shit, my friend" from Caleb during the really terrible lies.
Mollymauk's grinning response of "yeah, but you got to admit that was a fun one."
The easy exchanges of books and components Mollymauk found while on errands to restock, while Caleb finds something weird, dangerous, and ridiculous for Mollymauk. Colourful scarves, bags of something neither of them can identify but only Mollymauk will test. Bottles for books, a potion that has been slipped back and forth into their bags for a week before one of them finally needs it.
Caleb misses these rituals later, as much as he misses the soft pressure of a tail coiled around his leg under a table and the strange shift of weight in his pack when an unexpected book is slipped in. He misses the small games and long nights listening to obviously impossible stories over terrible drinks (and the occasional good one stolen from Beau). The constant noise of life and colour that was Mollymauk and now half-finished rituals as he catches sight of something unusual in a market or unknown, or there is an extra potion that he already misses slipping into the large pockets of an ostentatious coat.
It feels unreal. I finally finished this juggernaut after the last four years, with occasional hiatuses.
Though I have a lore / goodies guide to follow up after this, I need a break from writing. Also, I guess this means I will be back to my main blog sometime within this month. Thinking about it, it was also around May when I first came up with the GSvsAA Comparison Project, all the way back in 2013.
Time is a flat circle after all.
Thank you all for staying with me or at least waiting patiently for my return. The main blog will be back up in due course, but I need to do some heavy reorganization first.
Also, I never gave up on my Blogspot even though it's been infested by spam. For easier navigation, I will be porting over the most important posts from the GSvsAA project there, as I know my Tumblr is kind of a mess now.
A short snippet about Knoxx from the "200 Players Simulate a Government in Minecraft" video by ItzzzNuke! Was introduced to it by a staff member who's also a family member and they gripped my brain. This in particular is POV Knoxx :) set during a certain scene. Anyways Tiloxx (???) was super cute during the event! So happy nothing bad happened and they adopted a dog together at the end!
His hands wonât stop trembling.
Heâs always had steady hands. âSteady hands lead the peopleâ is what his father would say to him when he was small. He hasnât been small in quite some time, and now, his hands wonât stop shaking.
Distantly, everything is distant now, he can hear the crowd's mix of jeers and confusion. Heâs supposed to be dead. The people want him dead. He wants him dead.
His hands wonât stop trembling.
Slowly, always slowly, the procession inches forward towards the crowd. He can hear their words now. Theyâre still loud and jumbled, but he can hear them.
âItâs the traitor Knox!â One calls out in disbelief. He canât help but feel some disbelief himself, the words send his already unsteady feet tripping. A strong hand wraps around his arm before he can truly fall.
His hands wonât stop trembling.
He had almost forgotten his own name. He tries to feel it out in his mouth, to make his tongue curl around the consonants. All that trembles out is the same litany thatâs reverberating in his skull, echoing back and forth.
âFreedom is a lie, law is the truth, freedom is a-â
The hand around his arm tightens and jerks him slightly. He doesnât think they truly heard the mumbles, but they know when his mouth moves only one thing comes out.
His mouth snaps shut. The hold doesnât loosen. The procession hasnât stopped. The jeers havenât stopped.
His hands wonât stop trembling.
He tries to take a moment, to steady them or steady his walking or steady anything. But then he blinks and heâs already on stage, the moment has already slipped his grasp.
If heâs on stage, that means he must speak, he must address the people. He lifts his lips, just as his father taught him, to something that was once maybe a smile. He doesnât think it quite works, his lips are too chapped, his skin stretched too thin and his eyes remain flat.
It used to be a reassuring look to those under him, now those closest recoil. His hair used to be soft, now it is limp against his sweating forehead. His teeth were picture perfect, and now they were starting to yellow. His eyes were once described as charming, now they look like they belong to a dead man. In a manner of speaking he did.
His hand wonât stop trembling.
The Director of Economics stops talking, and gestures for him to come forward. And she turns to him. And just for a moment, his hands still.
Sheâs red, red, red, red and his vision is red. And he can see her, and sheâs beautiful and happy and laughing at something he said but theyâre laughing together. And just for a moment, for one single, aching moment, heâs not this trembling shell of what the good doctor left him. Knox is himself again, and Tilia is right there in front of him and close enough to touch.
And then he can see her eyes. And oh, his Tilia never looked at him like that. The directorâs eyes are full of such pain and anger and hatred towards him, yet her mouth is a cocky smirk and sheâs so much like his Tilia and so wrong and just for a moment longer, in the echo of his heartbeat he thinksâŠ
Sheâs dead and gone and itâs all their fault.
His hands shake with the magnitude of his rage. His knuckles are still bruised and his throat is still purple and side still aches and for once it serves to focus him like an arrow.
And then his rage slips from him too, leaving only behind a desolate fear of the room and the good doctor and itâs all gone. He is left an aching weeping wound that will never heal. His Tilia is gone and itâs all his fault.
He knows now what he must do, who he must sacrifice to uphold the law. The pirates are nothing in the wake of the doctor. Are nothing in the wake of the empire.
By the time he can slip off the stage, his feet are shambling like a lamb, lungs pumping like a broken well and eyes twitching this way and that, intense light all too much after such a long time underground.
The Director gives him a look, it is somewhere between contempt and content.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Words:Â 10,254
Relationships: Clea Dessendre & Canvas Verso Dessendre, Clea Dessendre & Original Verso Dessendre
Characters: Clea Dessendre, Canvas Clea Dessendre, Renoir Dessendre Canvas Renoir Dessendre, Canvas Verso Dessendre, Original Verso Dessendre
Summary:
Clea had a million things to do, and yet she still had to find the time to clean up after her parents' childish decisions. She was this worldâs creator, and she would be its destroyer.
