Most of the detached jägers heard of the Heterodyne's return and came home, but a few are still missing. Agatha learns this, and decides to fix it.
Raised By Jägers by Azzandra
Agatha raised by Jägers AU. That's pretty much it.
Good Old Heterodyne Problem-Solving by ThisCat
One second, the drugs are just kicking in and the girl is starting to spill all her secrets at the dinner table. The next, everything goes so horribly, horribly wrong.
(Agatha brings a small death ray to Sturmhalten.)
Mechanisburg in the Sky by Feneris
Coming out of the Madness is a lot like a morning with a hangover. Especially the part where you try to piece together just what exactly you did last night and why you thought it was a good idea.
To be fair, Barry Heterodyne had been under a lot of stress the past year. The news that Petrus Teufel and the Black Misit raiders were going around killing entire towns with toxic gas weapons was just the last straw. Memories are rather fuzzy from there. He remembers fixing the castle, going into the Jagerhall and rallying the Jagers, ringing the Doom Bell and summoning the town. He vaguely remembers standing at the castle square and giving a speech. He also remembers “escaping the tyranny of geography” being a major part of that speech. He also remembers assuring the Mechanisburg Chamber of Commerce not to worry, that they would be taking the river with them.
(The sequels are also very much recommended fics so read them too)
The Smallest things by NoRegrets30
In which Agatha's tiny helper is present during the Lucrezia fiasco at Sturmhalten and does something to help
Monsters Efficient by escaliers
Dimo, Oggie and Maxim have been searching for their lost masters for fourteen years. They haven't had much luck so far. By now it really feels like they're just picking out places to look out of a hat. Maybe they're owed a diversion.
Beetleburg will do.
Grandfather Saturnus AU by bigasswritingmagnet (thekumquat)
In which Teodora bullies Saturnus into not killing their sons, and they both live to raise Agatha while Barry is gone. Raised in Mechanicsburg by a literal saint and an old school Heterodyne, Agatha winds up somewhere in the middle and relatively sane. Y'know. For a Spark.
An Evil Town by Daecon
“A Merry-go-round that can level a small town seems a bit overboard for ‘self defense”
“Well…it could be a really evil town.”
Pint Sized Death by Poker
When Barry chooses to escape through a portal, he returns to Europa six years in the future. When he leaves again, he leaves a niece six years too young.
Agatha is twelve and really kind of wishing she skipped her tutoring session with Beetle.
The Safety Standards Need Work by icarus_chained
The first time Bill and Barry brought their friend Klaus Wulfenbach home to Mechanicsburg, it ... didn't necessarily go well. On the bright side, though, they didn't kill him! It was a close run thing, but they did not immediately get him killed.
Dimo Becomes a General by adiduck (book_people)
How Dimo became Dimo the Jager and then Dimo the reluctant Jager General. Missing scenes and how the Jagers managed during the time skip.
But I Don't WANT to be a General by bigasswritingmagnet (thekumquat)
The town is unfrozen, and the rest of the generals are back. Dimo would like this to mean HE does not have to be a general any more.
It does not.
Prometheus Rising by icarus_chained
"And all too soon he was at the gates of Mechanicsburg. Polite as you please, but here nonetheless."
The world is in ruins and Klaus needs an army, he needs information, he needs to know what happened. Even if Bill and Barry are gone now, there's always been one place he could go for that.
Locket by Para
Agatha was a cheerful child.
Of course she was. The locket didn’t give her a choice.
Lily by khilari
Agatha and Tarvek have had a fight, their daughter is upset, and it's Gil's turn to be the sensible parent.
The Art of Talking Yourself Into Stupid by ThisCat
Some minions never realize they're minions. Some do, eventually, and they all react in their own way.
Either way, Mamma Gkika knows how to deal with wavering hearts.
January In Paris by gisho
Alternate universe. Not long after fourteen-year-old Agatha Clay moves to Paris with her parents, her classmate Colette tries to figure her out - and is hijacked by a natural experiment.
Origin Stories by adiduck (book_people)
What makes somebody a jager is more than just the draught
More Practical by Akallabeth
Of belated marriage proposals and death rays
Gil Builds a Friend by bigasswritingmagnet (thekumquat)
Gil builds Zoing. Klaus isn't mad, he just wishes it was a little less sticky.
Personally I think there should be more fics/art/etc about an au where Sanji took on Luffy's pain at thriller bark bc of the angst potential
BEFORE ALL THE ZORO FANBOYS FIND ME I agree Sanji would not have handled it nearly as well but that's the delicious part like I don't even think he'd have a "nothing happened" thing bc he'd just be UNCONSCIOUS
ALSO Sanji having such a low opinion of himself and seeing it as just the Right Answer for him to sacrifice himself is >>>> (in the worst/best way)
Sanji on the brink of death and wrestling with all his previous brushes with it
Sanji in the infirmary for weeks on end unconscious and towing the line between life and death
Sanji who doesn't understand why everyone's upset with him once he wakes up
Sanji who starts to see that he's worth caring about and he needs to put himself any level other than dead(heh) last
ZORO who doesn't understand why the idiot cook knocked him out to take the thing that would probably kill him and doesn't know what that funny feeling in his chest is about it (newsflash dummy it's called caring about someone)
Idk I just think as a scenario it's rich for potential and I don't see it enough imo
(My shoulder is still killing me when I type, so, late and probably only offer for the Monthly Minekura Christmas challenge. Too bad, Seemed like such a nice challenge @monthlyminekura was offering. I loved when it crossed my dash.)
Obviously late for Day 1: Bells
Fanfic - Saiyuki Gaiden.
Jingle in Paradise
Sekai, down below, is a messy place, a chaotic place. This is why dreams exist, some divinities surmise, to allow the pathetic creatures living there to try and make sense of their absurd world and meaningless lives in their sleep…
Whereas Tenkai? Beautiful. Quiet. Orderly and perfect. Souls are blessed and untroubled, there.
Therefore, kamis don’t dream.
(Usually.)
For a while, Kenren-taishou hadn’t even had the words for this fake reality invading his sleep and leaving behind a strange taste to his waking hours…
Always the same images.
The overpowering sound of the falling rain, its cold hitting his bare shoulders as he walks. Darkness, the road, the man on the ground. Lying there, face down. Bleeding. He knows who it is. At once. Kenren just… knows. And when the wounded man reveals his face, and smiles… It’s even worse to be proven right.
Waking up, heart pounding, breathing hard. Reaching for the pack of cigarettes to chase the smell of wet earth and metallic blood still very present in his nostrils… It’s his morning routine, now…
Yume. He’s found the word in one of Tenpou’s beloved books. Dream.
But having a name to put on the phenomena doesn’t really help. So he distracts himself some other ways, accepts to run ridiculous errands for Tenpou on Earth below to fill his days between military missions and duties. So he forgets to sleep. (After all, kamis don’t really need to.)
That day, when he comes back home, with a small stock of Tenpou’s favourite cigarette’s brand, he’s in a reasonably high mood. Doesn’t even knock before making his way into Tenpou’s library. Still stops dead, though.
Obviously a tree standing in Tenpou’s office is not the weirdest thing Kenren-taishou has seen in his superior officer’s place. Plus he’s the one who got ropped into dragging it in here a few days ago, so, there’s that. (Yes, Tenpou had tried to explain. No, Kenren is still not sure he gets this Sekai “Chrissmass” thing and the point of it. Though he kinda liked the way the word had curled the marshal’s lips, so unfamiliar on his tongue, and the twinkle of delight it created in the man’s green eyes.) What’s more incongruous is the treatment Goku is inflicting on it. He must have zoned out when Tenpou explained, because he can’t fathom why the gaki is basically dressing the poor piece of vegetation in tinsel and adorning it with shiny stuff…
While the kid, back to him and still unaware of his presence, chatters his heart out to his Ten-chaaaaan!, asking of him his thoughts on his efforts, Tenpou stands right there, a faint contented smile floating on his lips and curling around an unlit cigarette.
Kenren sighs indulgently (he sometimes suspects Tenpou would forget his head weren’t it attached to his body), drops his package on a low table and draws closer to his superior officer in order to offer him his lighter.
Tenpou, after bending his neck a little to meet the flame, smiles his thanks, expression for once uncomplicated and somewhat almost blinding for it.
Kenren reflexively smiles back.
“Tadaima,” the general says, a tad too soft.
“Okaeri,” Tenpou replies, oddly solemn, and oh-so warm…
And sometimes, they just don’t need more words. Both lapse into silence, watching Goku have his fun.
There’s a soft sound, then, that comes from a corner of the room. The one of a page turned.
Oh, the blond grouch his there, too.
Curled on Tenpou’s office chair, his long legs tucked under him in a slightly bizarre way, at Tenpou’s desk, nose deep in one of Tenpou’s books. Kenren can’t help but think he’s out of place here. But where would Konzen-douji be if not far from his little charge, right?
Must have felt the weight of the general’s gaze, too, because the blond sourpuss raises his eyes after a few seconds.
His nose does this frowning thing, and Konzen glares a bit, too, as if he objected to the just lit cigarettes: he has a vague gesture of the hand as if to chase the delicate smoke that hasn’t even reached him yet, Kenren is sure.
Heaven forbid Konzen would look like he was enjoying himself being here, right, once he’d noticed he was watched…
But Kenren had seen.
For once there’d been this inabitual bubble of calm around Kanzeon-bosatsu’s nephew, very unlike this ever present buzz of irritation surrounding the man at any given time that often gets under Kenren’s skin.
The general could go at it, needle the man a bit. Changes his mind, though, and turns his attention back to Tenpou.
“Hey,” he simply calls, reaching for something tiny in his leather coat’s pocket and throwing it in the marshal’s direction.
He brings back little odd things from down below Tenpou hasn’t asked for, sometimes. Can’t help it, the marshal is so easily delighted…
The marshal snatches it from mid-air without much effort, in spite of his sloppy appearance. People forget, sometimes, that Tenpou is a soldier, a very good fighter at that, with the good reflexes it entails.
In his palm, a little sphere, something golden and delicately inlaid, with only a tiny slit on the metal and a tiny little ring to hang it, probably. Tenpou grabs it with two fingers to raise it closer to his eyes.
And they have drawn the kid’s attention too, now :
“A new christmas ornament? How did you know!” Goku exclaims, already reaching for the little thing.
But Kenren grabs him by the scruff of his scrawny neck. He loves the kid. To pieces. Still… and it feels ridiculous to say it out loud, but :
“It was for you,” he tells the marshal who was about to let the itan child have the gift. “It sings,” he awkwardly adds, then.
With his chibi saru-free hand, the general sends a finger nudge the thing in Tenpou’s grasp, and as he knew it would, the little ball hidden inside the golden shell moves, eliciting a delicate little sound.
“Yes, it would be wasted, just hanging still on a branch,” the marshal eventually acquiesces, brows already furrowed in reflexion, eyes invisible behind the harsh reflexion off his glasses. And without warning, he’s a flurry of activity. In three strides, he’s near a startled Konzen, reaching over him for a drawer, fishing into it, of all things, for a little ball of thin but solid wire and a little pincer.
It takes him hardly three seconds to figure out a way to fasten the sphere on the wire and create a little hook at the other end. Then, the marshal’s hands fly to the side of his head.
Not even a hint of hesitation, and he’s piercing skin and flesh pushing the metal through the little round part, till the gold orb hangs at his ear.
Kenren stays stunned for a full second. He hadn’t seen this one coming. But in the little things like the big, Tenpou is sometimes reckless to a point that could scare a lesser man than the general. (Who he is he kidding? Totally and indubitably scares him when he ventures to think about it.)
“What do you think? You said it was for me, right?” Tenpou says, smiling a bit like a proud loon around this cigarette he has managed to keep between his lips all along. He turns his head a little on his slender neck to show off, and a little ringing sound comes out the little sphere as if to gently underline the gesture.
It allows for Kenren’s hand to find the side of this face, on the pretence of angling it for a better sight.
A pearl of redness gathers at the puncture wound and collapses on itself, truly miniscule rivulet down the abused lobe.
It’s nothing, but it’s like a jolt to Kenren…
And the familiar images come, unbidden, while he’s still wide awake this time.
The overpowering sound of the falling rain, its cold hitting his bare shoulders—
Gravity makes its office, and the scarlet drop hits the shoulder of Tenpou’s labcoat. (Shocking) little flower.
“Chi.” Goku says, his little face raised to them. Tone odd.
There’s something in the way the kid’s nostril flare. Something flinty, for a second, obscures his golden gaze, suddenly metallic instead of warm. He’s like a different being for a second, one who could could inspire terror.
But the flash on the gaki’s features is so brief it feels like Kenren has just imagined this, that he can blame his already frayed nerves…
And the general doesn’t know what takes over him. He gathers the marshal to him by way of grabbing his labcoat, and leans in, on an impulse, towards the man. Till his lips are on Tenpou’s earlobe. The iron-y salt of blood and the tiniest hint of a real metal’s taste mingle on his tongue. He feels his officer still. And tense. Tenpou’s hand is suddenly on his arm, its message unclear. Stop. Or… Don’t you dare stop. Kenren wouldn’t know. Maybe Tenpou doesn’t either.
Goku, oblivious anew, saves them from public awkwardness, dragging his Ten-chan back to their tree… Since they are not conversing anymore, it must be alright for him to get back his friend to keep him to himself.
Kenren decides not to acknowledge how suddenly bereft he feels.
Also, now it’s on his tongue that the taste of blood lingers.
The overpowering sound of the falling rain, its cold hitting his bare shoulders, the darkness the road and the dying man, bleeding and smi—
Stop, the general tells himself, feeling uneasy. Now the dark thoughts hunt him even awake… What the hell is happening to him?
He feels a gaze on him and, whip-sharp, his head turns on his neck, catching Konzen’s eyes.
It’s a frown subtly different from the usual scowl, on the blond’s face. More considering. Almost… worried. And directed at him.
How odd, Kenren thinks.
But already the divine bureaucrat is averting his eyes. He has surprised Konzen’s eyes on him, and the blond god is probably as embarrassed at having been caught looking as Kenren himself is by his own lapse of attention, by how he has let his own discomfort show…
But he’s a soldier. He knows tactics. He knows… diversion.
He pastes his patented shit-eating grin on his face, and with a jerk of his chin, indicates Tenpou.
“Ever told you how I met him, Goldie?” And Konzen frowns a little, not entirely duped but curious nonetheless. “Came into his office and found him buried under piles of his own books.”
The great Konzen-douji can’t help a particularly unelegant snort.
“That would have been such a stupid way to lose him,” Konzen manages to offer. His book is definitively forgotten on his crossed legs.
“Heh. There an intelligent way?” Kenren needles.
It’s a just glance, that’s thrown his way. A flash of violet. But with a might and a steel you wouldn’t be used to, thinking of the spoiled nephew of the great Kanzeon-bosatsu. Surpringly, it cows Kenren the tiniest little bit.
“Yeah, no way we’re losing Tenpou,” the general weakly agrees, hardly above a whisper. Because the alternative is unthinkable. “Not that this itan kid of yours is better anyway at staying out of trouble,” he still feels the need to retaliate.
Over there near the tree, the marshal is giving a boost to the heretic child in question so he can reach the higher branches. Tenpou’s move makes the little sphere at his ear tinkle again.
It derails them both a little:
“Like a bell on a cat,” Konzen unexpectedly comments, and there’s something speculative in his gaze as it then flies to his charge, like it gives him an idea, and in a way, Kenren gets why. How tempting it would be to be able to always know where the kid is, be sure to be able not to lose him.
Kenren has spoken about this with Tenpou more than once. They’re just like Konzen. The three of them feel it, that unclear menace gathering around this kid. Even in this perfect place Heaven is supposed to be.
When has Paradise stopped being Paradise?
But then Goku says something that unexpectedly wrenches a surprised laugh out of Tenpou, and as the marshal’s body shakes in delighted mirth and he throws his head back, the little bell once again jingles.
And for a second, Kenren is able to forget the disturbing thoughts. He just drinks the sight.
Tenkai is paradise once again. A place where souls are supposed to be blessed and untroubled.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The Steadfast Soul by Posingasme
It's been a very long time since Sam considered he might one day have peace. But a hunt has left him changed, transformed into something entirely new, and he has a chance at a happy, beautiful life. He fights against this peaceful retirement. And if you know him, you know why...
The galaxy sees Obi-Wan Kenobi as the exemplary Jedi of the Order: calm, collected, and carefully detached. The galaxy sees Obi-Wan Kenobi as the aloof, accomplished being that he is reported to be: defeated a Sith when he was but an apprentice; training the Force’s son right after his knighting.
But if the galaxy truly has eyes, it would see that the child Kenobi is in his heart is not quite that much older than the child he carries under his wing. If the galaxy has eyes at all, they would see that deep inside Kenobi’s closet, hidden behind boxes and neatly folded clothing, there lies a redwood box that has not been opened in years. They would see inside the redwood box, where a coppery-auburn braid coils around a late Master’s lightsaber, silently reaching for its green Kyber core.
The galaxy does not have eyes.
——
The Council exits the Chamber of Ceremony in murmured chatter, leaving only the pair of former Master and newly-graduated Knight. Obi-Wan looks to his student, now a grown Jedi, with such pride in his chest that he cannot help but smile. Anakin is flushed and grinning ear-to-ear at him, bathed in the streams of early afternoon light that flow freely through tall windows. For a fraction of a second Obi-Wan wonders what it feels like to be Anakin right now. What it feels like to be knighted by your Master’s own warm hands and have them squeeze your shoulders as you think of a good gift-wrapping sentence to give them the severed braid in your hand.
Anakin fiddles with the golden cord of hair, twists it between his fingers. He has never been able to hide his fidgeting, and it isn’t as though Obi-Wan minds. It’s not quite proper, yes, but it is harmless. And quite endearing, although Obi-Wan would keep this remark to himself.
“Shall we walk back?”
Anakin nods, and shuffles closer to him as they traverse the hallways. Silence is barely noticeable between them, silken as a spring breeze and warm as a morning kiss. Anakin’s hands are firmly tucked into his sleeves, where Obi-Wan imagines he’s still wrapping and unwrapping the Padawan braid around his fingers. Obi-Wan stops himself before he could start wondering to whom Anakin is going to gift it. A Padawan’s severed braid is the most cherished, tangible remnant of their apprenticeship; the physical embodiment of their will and wits; the culmination of years of blood, sweat and tears. It is no small matter to decide who to entrust it, and it is often the case that a newly-knighted Jedi would place it in the hands of their former mentor as a token of gratitude and a treasured memento.
It is a privilege to be able to do so.
But, evidently, it is by no mean a mandatory practice. Some former Padawans do give their braids to their closest friends. Legends even have it that one old Master was known for having encased her braid in amber, like a pendant, and put it around the neck of her beloved varactyl. While uncommon, it isn’t unheard of that a former apprentice gave their Padawan braid to someone other than their Master. It is ultimately the decision of the individual fresh Knight, and they have no obligations to disclose the destinator of their braid nor the reason therefore. It should be keenly noted that not receiving their former apprentice’s Padawan braid does not reflect a failing on the part of the Master.
So Obi-Wan tells himself, when Anakin never comes to him with the golden braid.
It has been months after the ceremony, and he still wakes up some mornings wondering why.
He shouldn’t. It is utterly unbecoming of a Jedi to be so mired in such small matters. He knows better than anyone else that Anakin, his apprentice, his student, his friend, and often his mission partner, does not owe it to him. The fact that he is not Anakin’s first choice only means that somebody else has been cherishing Anakin better than he did. That is not, strictly, a Master’s failure. A personal failure, perhaps, but such a line of thoughts is unbearable and so opposed to the Code that Obi-Wan has little choice but to forfeit it. Moving on and living in the present is the only way, especially for a Jedi Master of his station.
And if he cannot, if the buried wounds fester and ache on lonesome starless night, then he has only himself to blame.
——
“Knight Skywalker… Skywalker!”
“I’m sorry,” Anakin dodges a hapless stranger who’s caught in the chase. He hops towards the stairs. “I need to go. I swear I’ll be back by this evening!”
“You have never kept that kind of promise in your life!” The healer who’s chasing after him is breathless and exasperated and, well, angry, although anger is unbefitting of a Jedi. “Knight Skywalker, come back here!”
“Sorry!” Anakin yells, without much thought, climbing over the spiral stairway’s railings. He drops himself down. Air reels through his hair as he free-falls, and he lands on his feet, only mildly aching where his shoulder has just been bandaged.
The ground is a little dented, but that’s not his problem.
He dashes across the corridor and catches a lift tube before the healer can send someone after him. Usually, this is where they give up - no use wasting so much time and effort on a runaway patient when there are plenty others in need - and Anakin is fairly sure this time it is the case too. He just has to be safe. He needs proper time, this time.
Because Obi-Wan has just gotten back to the Temple, and Anakin is finally ready.
He can just follow his Master’s light - he can do that even when they’re separated on an unknown mountainous planet covered in perennial fog, much less here in the Temple where the Force sings in their veins. He runs so fast he’s nearly gliding through the air, feet barely touching the ground. Obi-Wan’s signature beckons him in the most innocuous way, their bond glowing despite the conclusion of his apprenticeship about half a year ago. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t done what all former Padawans are meant to do; although Anakin doubts the dissolution of a decade-long mental link is as simple as giving away one piece of yourself. He’s going to do that now, in any case.
(He hopes that doesn’t do anything to their bond, really.)
The door to their quarters slide open and Anakin hurries in, already smiling to feel Obi-Wan so near. Obi-Wan’s pack is still on the couch, and his shuffling in the kitchenette can be heard all the way from the main door. Anakin makes a beeline for it.
“Master,” he greets, so sure that Obi-Wan has also picked up on his presence that it surprises him a little to see Obi-Wan turn around slightly wide-eyed as if unaware. Still, his Master nods with the subtlest smile under his whisker and a tilt of the head. And then immediately he furrows his brows.
“Anakin, those are infirmary robes. Did you just—”
Anakin cuts in; there’s no time. “I have something I need to give to you.”
Obi-Wan stares at him for a blank moment. “Is it something so important that you felt the need to cut your own treatment short for?” He gestures, eyes already intent on the bandages peeking out from under the too-loose vee of Anakin’s tunic.
“It is.” Anakin nods firmly.
He bids Obi-Wan to stay and wait and disappears into his bedroom. He’s kept it in a little leather pouch with suede drawstrings; dark and nothing elaborate, but sturdy and waterproof. He would have embroidered it if he had the time; although, if he thinks about it, it might be better this way, purely practical in a way that Obi-Wan would have appreciated more. Anakin’s not sure, really. He is working himself into nervousness and he needs to get out of this room before his courage fails him in the most crucial moment.
His Master is still standing in wait in the middle of the living room by the time he returns. Briefly Anakin wonders why Obi-Wan doesn’t take a seat; but there isn’t any time to question that now.
(Maybe if Anakin is any less distracted by the fluttering in his stomach, he would have noticed Obi-Wan’s hands bunched beneath his great sleeves, the way he always does to hide his own anxiety.)
He positions himself before Obi-Wan, almost stilted with his sudden compulsion for solemnity. He blinks, and smiles, and he thinks he has whispered Here it is, or he might’ve only thought the words and hoped Obi-Wan heard them too. Either way, he opens the pouch, gingerly pulls out the item. He takes Obi-Wan’s hand, and presses into it a bracelet.
A bracelet made of Anakin’s braid.
Gentle light sheens on the golden cord. Strung onto it are a few Japor beads that has taken Anakin quite some time to find. They rest snugly against the old bands - red, for piloting, and blue, for mechanics - that Obi-Wan has tied on with his own hands years ago. The ends of the braid are secured with lightsaber-steel caps and connected to a clasp. It lies serenely against the valley of Obi-Wan’s palm, almost glowing in the early afternoon sun.
Silence. Anakin peeks at his former Master’s face from under his lashes, chewing the inside of his mouth. He’ll be the first to admit that he has gone the unusual route. He can already imagine some other Master calling it frivolous, even. Not that he cares. He doesn’t care about anybody’s possible comment or side-eye at this moment, or ever. Just Obi-Wan’s.
And Obi-Wan’s eyes are wide and his lips are parted, but that is about it. Although surprise has never shown itself so blatantly on Obi-Wan’s face, it’s still such an understated display. Anakin’s bravery is slowly seeping down the drain, his heart thumping madly all the way to his trembling fingertips.
“I, uh, I made it,” he says, just to say something. Obi-Wan’s lashes flutter as if he is only blinking himself awake then. Anakin swallows thickly, and continues, “I figured that, um, this way, you could wear it if you wanted to. You don’t have to wear it, of course! You can keep the pouch. I mean you can keep it with the pouch. Keep it in the pouch.” Anakin winces, tripping over his words. “I’m not going to take it back, it’s still my Padawan braid which you—”
“Thank you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan smiles, and Anakin freezes. His Master’s warm hand with all of its familiar calluses closes around his own, squeezing around his knuckles in a clear display of affectedness. There’s that flush across Obi-Wan’s face too, tinting his ears pink.
“You’re welcome. Sorry it took so long.” Anakin grins, even as the corners of his lips wobble and his eyes sting because Obi-Wan is unclasping the bracelet right then and there. He intercepts. “Here, Master, let me put it on for you.”
So he takes Obi-Wan’s hand and he rolls down the undertunic sleeve a little bit; he secures the braid around his Master’s wrist and he pulls the sleeve above it, safely concealing that part of himself on Obi-Wan’s person. He pats the spot and can’t bring himself to pull away.
Obi-Wan doesn’t, either. He leaves out a moment before speaking up so tenderly: “Anakin?”
“I just…” Anakin struggles. He lingers in the liminality between apprenticeship and knighthood even as they stand as equals, tethering himself onto the former Master with whom his bond still shines. “I need a moment.”
Obi-Wan holds his, and now both of their hands are linked together, fingers upon fingers, closing around each other like layers of mutual protection. Their hands are about the same size now, aren’t they? There was a time when his whole spread hand would fit into Obi-Wan’s palm like a tiny starfish, no more. Anakin brushes a thumb over this one scar on the back of Obi-Wan’s hand. He can’t remember who saved whose life that time. It’s not like there is a difference, anyway.
“...So do I,” says Obi-Wan, so quietly. Something wavers in his voice and glistens in his eyes and Anakin can see it. Anakin sees it all.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: DCU (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Slade Wilson
Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Slade Wilson
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Slavery, Canon-Typical Violence, Spells & Enchantments, magic binding, forced stripping
Summary:
For many years now, Deathstroke has been a scourge on Dick's kingdom. Powerful, dangerous and unstoppable. So cue his surprise when one day an unknown warrior drags the mercenary into his court in chains. Dick's not sure how this stranger was able to capture someone as deadly as Deathstroke, but one thing is certain. He can't pass up the opportunity to take their most ferocious opponent off the battlefield once and for all, no matter what it costs him.
**
Dick knows something's not right the second the man's brought into the throne room, pulled to kneel two dozen steps away from the raised steps of the dais. He knows him. Of course he does. It would be impossible for him not to know the champion warrior of some of his father's greatest enemies. A ghost, flitting from army to army, until he lands and becomes an all-too-real giant on the battlefield. Death-dealer and warrior, larger than life and so proficient at his work they say he must have struck a deal with some god. Something to give him his terrible strength and his inhuman speed.
Deathstroke. Here. Kneeling in the middle of his throne room with his wrists in dark metal manacles and one cold, pale blue eye fixed right on him.
Jason, standing at his side, shifts forward and half-draws his sword with a rasp of steel, coiled and bleeding wariness through the faint thread of the bond they share, prince and defender. Cueing off him, the rest of the guards in the room shift to be at the ready as well, and still Dick doesn't feel entirely at ease. It isn't solely the bleed from Jason's emotions, either.
"Your Royal Highness," the man standing beside his kneeling enemy says, voice high and proud, even as he bends into a deep bow.
Essek is born (again) in weight, screaming bloody against the world.
They can’t shut him up for three days. He screams, and screams, and screams.
Then he goes quiet.
His mother kneels down in front of him crib and holds her stomach and prays to something, anything. Her boy has ancient eyes, and she knows what that means. Don’t take him away from me, she whispers to the dark.
He is named something different – something to soften the hard edges, something new. His mother takes pains to shape him into something without guilt. Whatever you did, she whispers into his hair, It does not define you. There is a sad knowing in the lines of her face every time her son takes a stick and draws a perfect circle in the ground. He scratches words in the dirt that mean nothing to her, in a language (languages) that she could never comprehend.
Essek’s (second) mother loves him, and is terrified.
He grows. He grows tall, with dark skin and pale hair. He listens to the stories of old and does not falter:
The Mighty Nein, some whisper.
Essek’s eyes glow with old, deep knowledge.
“This is not you,” his mother says, desperate. She clutches onto his forearms and digs her nails deep into his skin. “You are my son. I brought you into this world.”
The boy nods. At night, every night, he quietly washes off the blood.
The world knows what the Kryn do, the way their Beacons burn light and life into barren landscapes. Essek’s mother has never met one before, but she has seen the funeral procession of a madman. It glittered bright atop a wooden platform, flanked by six individuals and a ghost. The wizard had been painfully tall and stooped half his height, the halfling quietly holding his hand. They are aged, and wearied, and terrifying. Essek’s mother never wants to see them again.
Essek grows taller, and taller, and taller, until his mother barely reaches his collarbones. He is only fifteen, but she has to push him down to stare into his eyes. She knows the evil the Kryn bring. She knows what they have done to her boy. She will not let them take him away from her.
“This is not you,” she says, and he nods, every time. There are puncture marks dotting his arms and bruises along the soft slope of his muscles. They aren’t in a bad way, but they aren’t very well off, and Essek goes out every day to daydream in numbers and chop wood. “Whatever anyone tells you, you are my son. Mine. I will not allow anyone to take you away.”
He nods. He is a good boy. He always does what she tells him to.
.
Essek wakes up on his sixteenth birthday and throws up.
He settles against the sheets for a long moment, vomit painting down his front, body shaking. His mother is in the next room over, humming quietly to herself. Essek strains his ears, but she doesn’t seem too upset, so he allows himself a moment of quiet reflection.
Here it is, he thinks. There’s almost a relief to it. Here is my weight.
He gets up. He changes into clothing that does not stink. He bundles up his bedsheets and takes them outside to the river, careful not to let his mother see as he slips past the door. Essek has gotten good at these kinds of things, over the years.
Essek settles against the bank of the river and struggles to keep breathing.
(He is dead).
(He is dead).
(He is dead).
What is the last thing he remembers?
Yesterday. Shivering underneath the covers of his bed, waiting for his mother to fall asleep so he may do the same. She has grown….intense, over the past week. More so than his previous birthdays, which had always been accompanied by cake and a thick, rolling sense of terror.
What is the last thing he remembers?
Caleb Widogast, glowing in fire.
Essek allows his lips to curl into a smile. He lifts his face towards the sun and bathes in the light. Underneath his skin, something itches. A knowing. This is not for you. Essek finds himself trembling under the onslaught, but can’t quite bring himself to go back inside. In his house, there are – were? – countless parasols of every shape and colour. All gifts. He remembers Jester Lavorre – he remembers Jester Lavorre – coming over and going onto his roof and snapping them all open, to make a giant tent. He had loved those parasols dearly.
The knowledge that they are no longer necessary makes acid swill hard in his stomach.
It is for the best, Essek decides. There is a chance they may no longer even exist.
“Aldan,” his mother calls. Essek feels a jolt of unfamiliar fear pass through his stomach, and he takes a moment to settle it. It has been a long time since he has felt anything this strongly.
No. It had been yesterday.
(No. It had been sixteen years ago).
Breathe, he tells himself. The thought is absurd.
Essek gets up and turns towards their house. They have no neighbours – there might have been people, once, but his mother had moved them somewhere quiet and out of the way. He wonders about that, sometimes. What the world would have been like for Aldan, had Essek not existed instead.
“Coming,” he says. He leaves his sheets soaking against their small dam and walks towards the house.
His mother is shockingly pale against Essek’s own, darker skin. He has never met his father, to his knowledge, but he wonders sometimes. She is short, hair translucent and eyes a milky white. She takes his face into her hands and stares into his eyes.
“My boy,” she says. Essek’s skin crawls. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you, mother,” Essek says.
“Come, I have prepared breakfast,” his mother says. She grabs his wrist and drags him roughly into the kitchen, positioning him down onto the seat. In front of him is a plate of buttered toast, bacon and eggs. Essek’s stomach rolls.
“Thank you, mother,” Essek says again.
He does not know where they live. His mother had been very careful to keep all knowledge of their whereabouts from sweet, sheltered Aldan. My good boy, she says.
“Go on,” she says. She sits down in front of him and doesn’t look away. “Eat up.”
Essek eats up.
.
At night – for years now – Essek has dreamed of a scruffy wizard with the kindest eyes in the world.
Even before he remembered Caleb’s name, he knew his face. There are scars lining every inch of his body, face drawn tired beyond age. Essek remembers smoothing down the wrinkles with his fingers, remembers curling up against his side and shaking.
You are not absolved, Caleb Widogast tells him. But you are loved.
That’s all Essek has ever needed, really.
.
At sixteen years old and one day, Essek gets up early and leaves.
