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Chapter 1 : Table of ContentsChapter 2 : In which Thom of Trebond wakes up in Arda, Second Age
/ Tortall x Tolkien, crossover, Thom of Trebond, Maglor, Gil-galad, Elrond, Glorfindel
Chapter 3 : buon vino / 15th century RPF, slash, Giuliano della Rovere | Julius II, Rodrigo de Borja | Alexander VIChapter 4 : Forfeit the Sun
/ Haikyuu!!, Magic AU, slash, Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, Major Character Death
Chapter 5 : Dark as Daylight
/ RPG (manhwa), Vampire AU, pre-slash, Isley, Raiquia, Heavy Angst
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So young, so broken, a low, musical voice murmurs. Thom shifts uneasily even as he drifts from dream to dream. Hands skim across his robes and a sliver of magic pools into his chest like warm water, mending broken tissue in its aftermath as it spreads beneath his skin. Even in Thom’s unnaturally high fever, the sensation is akin to the healing sleep and he is lulled to a trance——until it probes in to where his Gift resides.Thom startles, suddenly wide awake. His sight is blurry and he can only spy a dark silhouette in front of him; he tries to move but fails.Aiya, the voice drops as if in mourning, no use in healing when the fëa fades away. Release be swift, for it is the only mercy I may bestow upon you.The warmth develops a grim edge and presses sharply between him and his Gift, still tainted with blood red and a shadow of what it had been. It is good as gone, Thom knows, and yet he cannot bear to lose what little is left of it so he clings desperately, drawing it back to the very depths of his mind. But tendrils follow through, sliding between the cracks of his core.It smothers his Gift with sheer force and he snarls; the pain echoes in the empty corridors of his mind that grows cold much too fast for him to bear—and he loses consciousness once more, fever suddenly broke and body limp. But he will not die.He will never know why, nor rejoice for his life for without his magic he is as good as dead. His Gift is what makes him Thom of Trebond; after losing Alanna, her faith, her trust upon him, it is the only reason left. It was the only reason left. He wakes with a gasp. The chills have gone, but it is hard to breathe. His eyes adjust to the late afternoon light inside while he heaves; the sun is too strong and he turns over, coarse linen against bare skin. Under the skin—he draws a ragged breath and reaches inwards tentatively, afraid to confirm, to confront——the utter vacancy in the dark halls of his mind.He stares up the ceiling, unable to think further. He closes his eyes, tried hard to avoid thinking about it, processing it, silent tears flushing out grime from his eyes. Pressure builds behind the brows until they are unbearable.He stifles a wet breath when a peculiar calm overcomes him. Relax, it brushes against his lungs, be at peace. A stirring discrepancy between awareness and sense, like the delirious humming of a prophecy. It is an unknown, nothing like his Gift, yet he heeds it. He closes his eyes, still breathing ragged but somehow sounding unconscious. It almost works and he feels a bit safer when suddenly a hand touches his neck.The calm drops and he reacts viciously, almost biting it. The hand lets go as a voice sounds from behind but it is nothing he can understand. Thom instinctively crawls to go flat on the wall like a cornered rat; and he freezes.It is no man that he sees. It is shaped like one, though it lacks the round ears of one and much, much too beautiful and androgynous that says male in a strange way, but not man. Dark hair ripples to the side of its face, darkening the hollow of its cheekbones. The nose arches like a fairytale rendering of a noble Lord from the Book of Gold, and the lips are pale, only a tad darker than the flawless skin that lights like polished bone.It is ethereal; it conjures up the image of a traitorous lover, the chiseled, handsome face that lacked vitality, lacked humanity.But there is a clear difference, faint lines in its dark gray eyes, laced with grief. The muted insanity beyond them are startlingly clear for him; for he knows that look and wore it like a slave collar until he was holding the chains, driving himself up the wall.As much as the creature is—feels wrong, it shows open hands as if facing a snarling dog; its voice is quiet and soothing, and he blinks at it. The active calm tries to wrap around again, and when he lets it settle under his sinews, the creature stares back with a strange expression.It asks again hesitantly in another lilting tongue. It feels different from the last words, more archaic and simple. He stares, at a loss of words. It disappears. He is left staring at the doorway, the outer rooms in plain view until it comes back with a plate in its hands. His stomach reacts to the smell. He ends up suspiciously reaching for it bit by bit, eyes flicking over to the creature every bite. They smile in that hollow way he knows and doesn’t like, and after he’s finished they point at themselves and says, Thurin.He doesn’t return the gesture, because there is no one to introduce here. The language he learns from Thurin is nothing he has seen before. The speech flow and subside like the waves of Port Caynn at evening, and the script—well. The script he comes to adeptly draw is curled and dotted, an imitation of undergrowth and plant unfurling. Thurin seems to approve of the work he has been doing, long graceful fingers skimming along the vellum and nodding to refill the ink. Nodding seems universal, how peculiar. It is not the only peculiarity he senses. Thurin do not walk but glide, carry themselves with a brand of dignity he isn’t sure is innate. It may be their species, of course, but the concise elegance of the creature terribly reminds him of his sister and her sword, effortless and refined and most of all, deadly. They are also silent and much too light on their feet; even brittle branches make no sound beneath them. The agility that they show when he accidentally sweeps a plate off the table almost scary and at the same time, utterly fascinating.Thurin walk with an inhuman, ethereal grace, and he can’t help watching. The dark gray eyes eventually acknowledge his stare and silently waits for him to speak. And he looks away every time, until the day he does ask in his stilted, limited grasp of Sindarin. “What are you, Thurin?”They cock their head to the side—reminiscent of a dead duke, he swallows—and answers promptly. “I am Eldar.” That Eldar. He's come to understand the word synonymous to whatever species Thurin belongs to, but it doesn’t explain anything. It may not even be Sindarin, though it may belong to a cousin of the language.“I clearly don’t know what that word is supposed to be.” He mutters in Tortallan, but the tone is pretty clear and Thurin have that recurring hollow smile on. He eyes it with barely concealed distaste.“I am Eldar. Nothing else, nothing more. In Quenya, it means Children of Stars.”Thurin slip into it very easily, a mother tongue perhaps. But he does not ask. The speed of which the guardsmen ride upon him is almost frightening. If he'd not known of his lack of fëa and that any elda could feel that absence so jarringly, he would have run, got caught and received an even more condemning stare. He tries not to show his nervousness and stares back at the head of the riders. The dark haired elda interrogates him sharply, bemused when he follows without a peep. They take him into the city, apparently called Lindon, the center being the court of the High King. The court itself is somewhat like the court of Corus, and it slightly bores him out of the fascination in seeing so many eldar and men interacting. Ereinion Gil-galad is a phenomenon and strongly reminds him of the crown prince, well, king, if he ever survived his coronation. The High King looks very interested in why it scowls, is it Messenger of Morgoth? Servant of Sauron?He asks himself why not speak the truth? Not that they really believe him to be from a place so far away that no fëa is normal. He can't explain what he doesn't know either. They conclude him to be a child of his kind, even if he’s already twenty three. It's not the first time his small stature has earned him something as degrading as this; he tries and fails to consider it a win.The High King reads men too easily to neglect that something is different beyond the nonexistence of the soul, whatever, though the other-world explanation still seems too absurd to consider with weight. He doesn’t push it and stays put in the small room they put him in and lounges, writing papers on the difference of Tortall and this Arda in clear Sindarin, though no one will read and take a hint. It’s not like he had anything else to do than skulking around the world, after Thurin... after. It's almost comfortable, setting himself up on a routine that he almost forgets his circumstances when the king himself comes knocking. The elda watches him zealously scribble things down with a somewhat scalding, despising look. It reminds him of his twin, young and wild and loathing when Father would tell off some insane idea of hers. He smiles absently, then realizes it may not be the best response.Of course the king demands to know. He gets a knife at his throat for initially refusing to answer. Very touchy; was there a grave accident before, perhaps?“You remind me of my sister," he stalls, searching the king's face. He thinks he sees something, a raise of a brow maybe, "when we were seven and I flipped the chessboard on her winning streak." Ereinion Gil-galad looks curious for a moment, then laughs like silver bells, as all eldar did.Then he throws him in the dungeons. The dungeons surprisingly does not drip from questionable sources of water. However it does not drip any source of water and his throat is parched from the staleness of the air. The oppressive quality makes him think of Trebond Castle, alone in the study with Father dead and Alanna away, Maude keeping herself small in the corridors. His stationary were confiscated. He doesn't push his luck to ask it back. To look back, his unconscious mind had been dropping hints everywhere. The tingling, for one. The air becoming crisper and crisper, almost like the crackling before lightning. Waking up under the bed with no memory nor pain, when the footsteps of the dungeon patrolmen disturb his sleep at night. He feels better without reason, which is rare for him; he stays better, which is even rarer. His mood has never been this steady, but he doesn't have swings for that week. It is about a week of unnatural cheer when Thom suddenly falls into fever. The heat pitches sharply, taking away his restraint and the guards stop being irritated from his manic outbursts and starts being concerned enough to call up for the higher-ups. He would’ve been snarky if he was fine, but now he barely feels their presence. His body is burning away and all he feels is pain and anger and fear, fear that this might be it for him—but it was due a long time—he is still afraid, why is it taking so long—could he see her again after?—but there is something peeking out of the storm of chaotic emotion that just doesn't ring with the rest.It rips out like a dam breaking. He cries out loud, whimpers, feels cool hands smooth his forehead as the cracks of his deserted core grow wider and become deep chasms. He would’ve been thrashing if he wasn't at the verge of passing out, and he only shudders and jerks when they start to burst——and violet pushes through.He opens his eyes and everything is as clear and vivid as it had once been. He doesn’t notice the king peering back down, he just sees the flow pounding back inside him, purged of the orange taint it had once taken on. He holds his breath as he takes an imaginary hand above the rivulets of brimming fire, slowly and carefully. It responds, tentative but awake and alive and he stays silent in wonder as it manifests under his guide, purple sparks charged with power. It feels so good, having the Gift coursing through his veins again, strumming and humming under his skin like a long-lost friend, to fall into the embrace of it again and this is when he finally sees Ereinion, eye to eye.“The fëa.”The king speaks in astonishment and disbelief and Thom of Trebond laughs like he would let out a long-awaited cough. He laughs as he would sob and echoes, not quite.“My Gift.” Thom finds out that his beard isn’t growing.It’s Elrond who notices first, about a full six months into Thom’s stay in Lindon who points it out. Elrond coughs politely and asks, “Do you usually not have growth on your chin?”Thom blinks at the non sequitur and answers without thinking it out. “No, I had them in puberty.” Then he understands why Elrond looks so put off. “Oh.”“Oh indeed.” Elrond smiles a bit and his voice drops lower, softer. “I don’t think you’ve aged, either.” He murmurs as if he were approaching a wary horse.Thom instantly dislikes it and retorts sharply, “Or you’re just imagining it.”Because Sir Alan of Trebond never had much beard before he married Marinie of Tasride, and the Trebonds tend to age later, well in their years. Thom doesn’t go ahead to explain it, but Elrond seems to get his discomfort and thankfully backs off.Thom stalks off without a word. It’s after a decade that Thom finally acknowledges it. He’s not aging, at least physically, and he’s still an unbearded youth who looks so painfully young, same twenty-three as when he dropped into this world. He wore his copper hair in a Mithran braid that no one here has recognized so far; he knew they would not, but it’s another confirmation that he’s not in Tortall and he feels somewhat lost when he wears it.He casually takes a look into elven braids, and when Elrond sees him eyeing some of the formal braids he subtly offers him a hand. Thom stares squarely at the ever-gentle lord and eventually sighs in concession.Some of the eldar flinch when he puts on elven braids; those that Elrond has taught him are ancient Noldorin, borne in the First Age. Combined with his red hair, it clearly paints a ghost of the massacres. Thom acts like he doesn’t see them whispering. Elrond apologizes all flustered and embarrassed and shows him other braids, Lindonian styles that he picked up from the Court.Thom keeps the old braids on. He knows by experience that giving them things to talk is better. Thom has long been accustomed to the various rumors that surround him; it is inevitable, really, for he belongs to neither eldar nor edain and does not age, have kin nor have ties. He has magic purple and visible, fëa brilliant violet unlike any other. All this difference always gets him kept at arm’s length, even if he is one of the most senior advisors of the High King.(Ha, senior advisor. He would not have dreamt of it before, but things are different here, mostly himself. Dying has made him softer.)The wariness doesn’t bother him much; it was the same back when he was the eighteen-year-old Mithran Master, young and believed dangerous. The Gifted society had watched him warily, always trailing a few feet behind, always surrounding him, watching every move he made. Only Alanna had been different because she understood him like no other. She paid attention to him, knew what he meant, not what he said. She was short-tempered, yes, but it did not mean that she did not understand. They were once one, they were two parts of a whole and Thom did not need anyone else, as long as she was there for him and he was there for her.Then Roger happened, and Thom died on her—he can still remember her anguish and he regrets everything again, ashamed of how he broke her as much as it broke him—and he came back in a different, unfamiliar world, no ties, no knowledge, nothing to hold him up. Men here do not have magic in their blood; those who do were another race entirely, and the eldar look and act much differently from what Thom subconsciously expects. Even their magic is formed differently, passive at its best and Thom knew from the very start that he does not fit into this world, that this world has no place for him. Thom is lost—he knows it deep in his bones, and for that alone he cares not to socialize.He does develops a softness for children though, especially the quiet ones who are far too wise to throw a fit when he doesn't give them a good show. When he's in a good mood Thom displays little fireworks and radiant purple illusions that keep them busy for a while. He doesn't mind when the parents come and usher the children back with wary eyes; he knows how treacherous he can be. It's one of those evenings, a quiet discussion next to the dances of the court when a lord comes knocking. Ereinion cocks his head to the side—he's never heard of an Annatar before—but lets him in, to see what he has brought. Thom, seated just behind the other councilors and not in sight, catches a glimpse of the guest. He is somewhat familiar but Thom cannot pinpoint the uneasiness. Elrond seems to be bothered by the being also, and Thom is secretly relieved that he isn't the only one. Only when the guest is sent away, Thom recalls a dead man in a long time, a false smile plastered on a perfect face.Roger haunts his dreams that night. It is well into the Second Age when Glorfindel returns from Aman. The glorious lord of lore is a lion in its prime, and Thom is instantly reminded of a certain Lioness that he practically runs away from the welcoming banquet, locks himself in his quarters for the rest of the night until Erestor comes knocking with a wine bottle in hand. Too bad for Thom that Glorfindel is appointed as Captain of the Guards, since it means that he is also on the Council of the High King. Thom tries his best to avoid the golden lord, but the encounters are inevitable.The sorry thing is that Glorfindel is a delightful person. He never tries to prove himself which, to be frank is not surprising at all, but Thom also gladly appreciates the warmth he brings along when he steps into a room. It’s just that every time he greets Thom, he sees Alanna and he cannot bear it. Glorfindel is fundamentally different from Alanna—male, elda, all gold and amber, tall, ethereal, graceful long hands, lean-muscled, full lips, blue armor and yet. Yet he reminds Thom of his sister, his counterpart, and it’s hard to watch but even harder to not watch so Thom resolves to ignoring him entirely.Not that it goes well.Exhausting is an understatement. The hardest thing, the one thing that screws it up for Thom is that Glorfindel cannot take a hint. Thom would not usually care and just snap and snark until the other finally gets the idea, but unlike Elrond who knows Thom’s mood swings better than himself or Ereinion with whom Thom bite back and forth, Glorfindel keeps inserting himself into Thom’s daily life. Thom suspects that this may be Ereinion’s revenge, asking Glorfindel to keep an eye on Thom for anything suspicious, but he has no proof other than Glorfindel looking thoughtful and very attentive whenever Thom uses his Gift. The persistence becomes tiring, and the lord just takes all the tantrums Thom throw deliberately with a deceptively cheerful demeanor. Thom quits lashing out after a while, opting to confine himself instead to either the library or his quarters.Glorfindel seems personally attacked by Thom’s desperate evasion yet still does not confront him. He is only frustrated and keeps pouting with those full lips (not that Thom is eyeing him every time he does it). Glorfindel tries hard to appease Thom and apologize for whatever he did wrong and consequently Thom avoids him even more.Not until Thom gets drunk at a small gathering of the High King’s Council does the elda find out a sliver of truth. Lothlorien sends them a batch of wonderful wine one season and Thom fails to escape the royal drinking match. Thom is not a lightweight in even court standards—he can drink Erestor under the table and Erestor usually wins all the drinking games in a banquet—but it turns out that Ereinion is only second to Oropher, who is apparently the patron saint of liquor and has never been inebriated.Thom ends up conceding, slumped comfortably in his chair and Ereinion laughs at it for once. Elrond hands Thom a glass of water as Glorfindel watches, amused when Thom starts swearing up and down. Ereinion thrives to build blackmail material for the next council meeting and is delighted to see the little shit finally lose his control. They find out soon that Thom intoxicated is painfully honest and starts to ask embarrassing, trivial questions.And Glorfindel quietly asks what he has done wrong. Thom stares back into those golden eyes. Glorfindel is about to cancel his question when Thom takes a swig out of his glass and mutters, “I miss her.”The senior councilors suspects who Thom is referring to, and wraps up the gathering. Erestor doesn’t know what is going on, but he can take a hint and leads Thom back to his quarters, not that Thom really needs it. Only Glorfindel is perplexed. Thom makes a mistake of hesitating in a skirmish, almost ending up dead on both sides and Glorfindel is finally enraged, demanding that any problem to be settled.Thom tells him what was wrong, that nothing was wrong with them, and “I apologize, this will not happen again.”They avoid each other for months. “She was beautiful,” Thom is casually ignoring Glorfindel when he speaks; it is an invitation that the golden lord finds hard to overlook. “She probably is, if she still lives.”They are both quiet after Thom’s non sequitur, until Glorfindel speaks up. “I could paint her for you if you wanted.”Thom looks him in the eye and it is the first time that he smiles at him.“It’s fine, but thank you, my lord.”
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1467, age 22 Listen carefully, mio nipote. This is not the University, nor the Friary where you may do as you will. This is politics, and your recklessness will get you nowhere. You will think before you speak, and listen before you think. - The banquet is a lasvicious event that takes all the evening. As his uncle’s attendant, Giuliano sits at his left and stays so the whole of the evening. Francesco told him to keep his mouth shut as if Giuliano didn’t understand what was on stake, and of course he does, he isn't that much of an idiot. He knows himself and his habit of lashing his tongue around. Spirits had been tossed around for some hours and it is due to the drinks that Giuliano stands up to weave his way out of the banquet, with a simple excuse muttered in his uncle’s ear (mi scusi, reverendissimo). When he does come back, his uncle is still quite sober, given that he favors light beverages over hard liquor, but he still leans a bit too much on the table, deep in conversation with a younger man in scarlet. Another cardinal. Giuliano slips back on his uncle’s left side and the man’s focus flickers from Francesco’s animated laughter to the intruder and stops squarely on the boy. Giuliano falters in midst of sitting down, Francesco only then noticing him. “Ah, there he is. Cardinale, this is my nephew, Giuliano della Rovere. Nephew, the most Reverend and Illustrious, Rodrigo Cardinale de Borja.” Dark, keen eyes pins him down as he moves around the table. Giuliano takes the man’s hand, gets down on one knee and lowers his head to kiss the ring. Dry lips slide, barely scraping the skin. Eyes upwards, he smiles crookedly.“It is a pleasure, illustrissimo e reverendissimo.” He catches the man looking at his throat as Giuliano speaks, mouthy and barely restrained under his uncle’s eye. Giuliano casually makes double entendres that fly straight over his uncle and right into the younger cardinal. - Cardinal Borja is a man of vigor; strong, intelligent, and everything Giuliano likes in his partners. Pity that he’ll be back in Perugia by next evening. Giuliano gives a filthy kiss and strides out of the cardinal’s quarters.
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The first thing you remember are your fingers. It's not because it's tinged with ash, but because the fire you accidentally touched never burned your hand. Instead, it follows you out of the hearth and dances orange on your fingertips. You stare at the flickering light in a daze before you hear someone turning the doorknob. You jump, you were hiding from the older boys in the cold, dusty room before the hearth suddenly burst into life so you scramble to hide again. Only after your frenzy to hide do you realize that the door never opened and the fire vanished, but the heat still lingers softly and it's warmer than before. You creep back out the tiny window you jammed with a branch of oak when you hear the lunch bell. You barely get through, and you struggle a bit before you’re free to go.
You later find out that no one has managed to get into the room again because the door was somehow jammed. The older boys scoff and try kicking at the door, but it won't open. It stays locked until the headmistress’s son, a magus comes by and easily unlocks the door. By the next month, you're registered as a magus and moved to another orphanage which is considered to be "more suitable for a magical child".Indeed, there are classes in the new orphanage where you learn to control your magic. There you find out that you’re unusually close to fire, and that you’re the only one in the room who isn’t hurt when a sheet of paper, and subsequently the linoleum floor catches fire. At first the others blame you, because everyone knows you have an affinity for fire but then some of the quiet ones start confessing that they were playing with magnifying lenses. You're grateful for their honesty and make friends that day, but it's a flimsy thing that breaks down when you both want the same toy. You apologize later but it's never the same again. The older kids pick on you because while you are an angel (all the teachers said so, though you don't know what it is exactly, because your parents never mentioned those so you’re just guessing it’s some kind of compliment), you are also a crybaby and the runt, smallest in the whole age group. So you become an expert in finding little nooks and crannies in the gardens or in the laundry room.The laundry room is where you first meet him. It’s not exactly an ideal meeting, since he’s doing his chores when he finds you in the broom closet. You’re too startled to move, but he looks at you, sighs, then pulls you out gently to dust you off. You instantly like him because he’s nice. You sneeze, then he sneezes from all the dust you’ve accumulated in there, but he opens the window, gets the job done somehow and walks you back out of the laundry room. You whine a bit, because you get the feeling that he’s someone you can whine to, but he doesn’t take any of it and shuts the door firmly behind you.You meet him there again, in the same broom closet at the same four o’clock the next day. He sighs again, and pulls you out. He’s walking you out again when you pull on his sleeve and whine a bit more enthusiastically. You pout and beg to stay, that you could sit still—you couldn’t, actually, you still fidget a bit and flick on and off the candlelight during Keeper meetings until Kenma tells you off—on the stool at the edge of the laundry. He takes a long look at your sad, puppy face, tells you it doesn’t convince him any bit but it doesn’t discourage you because you know how adorable you are. All the adults tell you so. He eventually lets you trail behind him instead.He’s not much taller than you thought the day before, and you learn that he has a habit of scrunching his nose when he’s just about to sneeze, and he sneezes often. You wonder if it’s just because it’s the laundry room and the broom closet is open, but you’re not sneezing so you guess it’s only him. He has strong hands for a kid, and you wonder why he’s doing the laundry, of all things. You tell him exactly so. His ears go red, and he barks out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. Then he turns around and asks you why you were hiding in the closet when you could have been traipsing outside in the gardens. You shrug.He turns back and tells you he’s eight. He’s in here doing this because his mother works in the orphanage and she doesn’t have time to babysit him, so he gets to do the laundry and be responsible. He sounds proud at that, and you tell him you’re eight too and you don’t get him, and that he’s weird because no one likes chores, even if it makes someone responsible (whatever that means, by the way. You still don’t really get what it is all about and Middwellers are ridiculous). By the way he squints at you and huffs, apparently he does.You learn his name later in the evening, when you’re back to the orphanage beds. You should feel tired, because you’ve been showing off your skills—or really, your lack of—to your new friend-ish person but you aren’t, you stare up at the ceiling, tossing and turning. The older girls are giggling and you overhear something about the new cook and her son. Her son, who has short spiky hair and a stoic little face but blushes bright red when he notices them in the hallways, how he’s much cuter than the gruff boys here. You instinctively know that’s him, the one you met in the laundry room, and you catch the name.Hajime.It's pretty, and it fits. But all the others would call him the same, so you think of a nickname. Something special that only you will use. That only you want to use. You’re still thinking of what to call him when you wake up. It’s dawn, and you know by what the girls said that he’ll be coming back today too. So you wait around until eight o’clock, not eating breakfast and wait on the stairs for him to come in. You don’t catch him for a whole hour, and neither can you see the new cook. By that point, you go looking for him and find him in the kitchens, peeling potatoes. He sees you and you squirm at the sudden awkwardness, and he beckons you to the sink. You wash your hands, with soap, just as he wanted you to and he hands you a peeler.It’s hard peeling a potato without reducing it to the size of an egg—it’s too round—so you try cheating and chop it into cubic blocks. You don't get far because he snatches the potato out of your hands and gives you the carrot instead. The carrot you’re better with, because you just have to cut long stripes of wayward roots and soil off. He seems to approve and nods slightly when you put down your handiwork, and you suddenly get comfortable sitting side by side on the kitchen floor.You’re on the cucumbers, wondering what food would need a disgusting cucumber for, when a woman with a white bun-like hat comes out of the back door. She coos at you both for being such precious darlings, and she proceeds on doing her thing which you can’t see by your place on the floor. But you do know that she’s amazing because that is the most delicious scent you’ve ever smelled. She smiles when you perk up and start sniffing around the counter.She feeds you both a carrot and a cucumber, which you don’t deny because Hajime would probably not approve if you discriminate vegetables, and she tells him to be a good boy and play with you. You’re fine with that, because you liked him before and you still like him, and he doesn’t seem to have any objection so you both head out to the gardens. No, you can't lose him like this. You cannot, you will not. But his soul is slipping away, led by knots of dark threads that reek of death. This is the end that fate had bestowed upon him, but no, you can't lose him like this. No, no, no, and you try to grasp the soul but it hardly stays inside your hands, about to drift off any moment. You can't do anything. You can't, oh god, you can't, but you have to, have to do something—and you see the fireweasel skittering in its cage.The fireweasel. The flame hoarder. A creature of the Sun. You instinctively know what you can try. Hell, you're a Southmage, a sun magier. You're a fateshifter. If anyone can do this, it's you.So with trembling hands you pluck off the webs of death that cling to the soul like tar, then take your own strings of life. It pulses with energy every moment like a solid, steady heartbeat and you pray to god knows who for this to work.It does. Once loosened, his golden tendrils shoot out over the room and you can see the exact moment to tweak the magic. You take it; you gently coax the slowest, brightest string, the string of fate out of the frenzy and tie it to your own soul. The other strings make their way to the fireweasel, a creature most attuned to this brand of southern magick, but the most important one is now fastened to you.Now he shares your fate.-The fireweasel coughs and grumbles in its sleep, just like Iwa-chan.You can't believe you've succeeded. You have this feeling that you'll never be able to do this again, change fate like this without risking your own life, but you don't care as long as Iwa-chan is still with you. You don't need anything else, anyone else. You don't need to change fates ever again.He can't remember himself, because the vessel is different. But it's okay. It's okay, because it's still the same Iwa-chan, just without his memories. You haven't lost him yet.Everything will be fine, because he's still here. Iwa-chan. Iwaizumi.Hajime.
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Rain pours incessantly on the stark grey walls of the city and pools at the bottom of the stained glass window. The well-crafted twilight sky never changes down here in the Necropolis, and the scarce artificial rains are never as fresh as it would be above in Raizo. Torches flicker as footsteps echo in the hallway and come to a stop at the window. A lean man in a rich black robe stands staring out into the horizon, eyes searching and narrowed. His face is smooth and perfectly balanced, with deep set eyes that glitters keen and sea-green. A straight nose meets dark brows, an epitome of male beauty. The skin seems paler than it truly is, contrasted with long raven hair that falls sharp to the side, brushing against cheekbones. But beyond the chiseled complexion and tall stature the air around him is heavy, old, dark and almost tangible; it moves like a sentient being, sensing everything around it. The man blinks once, then twice after the long moment and his eyes take a shade of bright teal as he starts off again, turning right at the end of the hallways and taking a winding staircase down. A few people who passes by greets him with formal words and he nods absently at them, apparently at ease with the status and power he holds. The dark buzz that shadows him flexes and clings to his robes, and torches dim and die as he passes by. The man ignores all the fuss his shadows make and keeps going, taking staircase after staircase down the city until he does not encounter anyone anymore. The darkness settles back again, albeit humming with quiet indignation. At one point he steps into one of the lower quarters. A single door stands at the end of the eastern wing, engraved with overlapping designs and patterns. The teal-eyed man stalls for a moment and knocks quietly before giving the heavy oak a light push. The door silently opens and he glides in slowly, giving it another push to shut them again. The office is dim, lit only by a few notched candles. The notches still holds three and a half. The draped bed on the other side of the room shifts slightly as the door thuds shut. The teal-eyed man smiles at that and approaches, taking the loose drapes in one swift move and hanging them back in place on the bedpost. A lithe boy, looking barely out of adolescence blinks owlishly up at him, sprawled upside down and languid on a hoard of pillows. His hair, usually tied high into a long ponytail, is loose and spread on the pile like a dark halo that pools on the bed as he cocks his head to the side. The glimmer of a shield fades swiftly as he recognizes the intruder. "Oh." The young man grins, eyes warm and dark in the candlelight. "Hello, Isley. I see you've returned." Isley returns the smile playfully. "I certainly have. I see you've been busy." He climbs on the bed, lounging beside the boy who does not even try to sit up from the pile. Instead, the young man snuggles deeper into the hoard and only holds his left hand out to Isley. "Hm?" Thread is wrapped intricately on each finger, knotted irregularly and clearly uncut from the spool he holds on the right. The boy shrugs as Isley takes his hand to give a closer examination, adding another line across his palm by the flick of his right hand. A harmless speck of light bursts above them as a transparent white aura envelops the web of thread. "Just some efficiency and control experiments with thread magic. I needed the room dark enough to check the flashes, so I just turned everything off and lit a few candles just in case." Then he sits up straight with horror in his eyes. "Goodness, the laboratories!" "Nibelung saved it before you wrecked everything. Thank her and just don't forget next time." Isley chuckles, ruffling the boy's hair like he would a child. The young man groans and flops back on the mound of pillows again. "She'll never stop nagging. Damn it, I can't even hide until she lets it go—there's a council meeting tonight." "I could attend in your place, I've missed a couple in the past few weeks." Isley suggests but he shakes his head. "You could, but then she'll come down here instead so no, we're going together. By the way, you're lucky you've been absent, Isley, because it's been a massive clusterfuck during the personnel appointments." The boy makes a disgusted face. "Every single party in this damned city have been plotting to wipe out one another, and there's so much I can do before they all turn on me." He moans and dramatically sticks his head into the pile again, flailing arms all around. Isley quickly ducks to evade a blind arm and casts a joking remark. "Ah, but they're too sensible to do that, Disciple Raiquia." Raiquia snorts at that point and crosses his arms across his nightshirt. "They're just sensible enough to wait until they can, Disciple Isley." Isley shrugs. "Not everyone resents you." "Please, they only tolerate me because I am your proxy when you're absent, and you're absent most of the time. Those who actually like me, on the other hand, have no power nor interest to risk all that disapproval. Can we abandon this topic? It's going to be messy if we stay on this track." The younger man waves his hands lazily. "Tell me about your trip instead. Is it true that our dearest master needed you to fetch and roll for him?" Isley smiles wryly. "As usual." "As usual, ha." Raiquia echoes, flat and unsurprised. "When is he going to send us off to a suicide mission again?" "I don't even know, the master is uncharacteristically taking his time. He was even courteous during the trip, so it might take a while for him to see we’re not buying any of it." “He’ll be picking me off next time, since your party would very much protest if he sent you away again after so short a break.” Raiquia cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. “Or not. I’m practically your only drawback so he could try and use me as bait.” “The Master isn’t half the idiot you think he is, Raiquia. You’re a First of the Order, he would be much more careful.” “You seem to forget he’s a First himself, and an ancient one at that. I do despise him, but I don’t expect him to make that obvious a mistake.” The younger man throws his hands in the air dramatically. “Oh, I don’t even care now. Let him come whenever he wants.”
Under is in 2nd person, because it's what I scribble in and this is a draft
You gag, you retch, you desperately try to clear out the new blood from your system. Too bad your body is hungry for more; it's already absorbed everything and demands for you to start feeding again. It blindly chases that full, satisfied sensation and you hysterically shake your head choking on your own whispers, pleading and begging for something you don't even know. No one listens; you've slaughtered them all. You has sucked on everything in its grasp and left nothing, not a living soul. You claw at your chest. You want to bleed it all out, all that you've drunk in the haze of instinctual bloodlust but bright red beads cling briefly on the laceration just to be absorbed back inside, bound too strong to you and you only. They don't even form properly as they used to and you wonder in panic just how much your VT has risen. Two hundred thousand? Three? After all, you've fed on everything in that city, the wretched city—you heave again and cry but you can't; you're a vampire, you've been one for centuries and yet you still act so human, so young. You technically are if you think of how many times you've fed properly since your initial transformation: none. No wonder your body craves for more but you had your reasons for your unnatural fasting: you had only become this monster because you had to survive, survive this hellhole, survive this coerced life of a sorcerer, forever bound, forever pulled down by this city's system of death and rot and the damned Black Goddess of theirs. At least you're free now; you've destroyed the chains they held over you, yet you've also devoured their tainted life, twisted and distorted with heathen faith and madness. The tendrils of black sorcery that swam in their veins now crawl in yours, darker and stronger and more enticing than ever, power you've never wanted even once in your thrice damned life.