-- Ashes to Ashes

It’s been about 800 years since I’ve posted to this blog, and most of you do have me/are following me on my main blog at the moment, but I wanted to give a little update here in terms of my plan going forward with this blog, and, by extension my vampire multi ( @nxctiphany​ ).

I imagine I will not be back for a while, still, work is very busy at the moment, and will likely remain so until at through summer (they’re also being highly aggressive towards us in terms of time and pay and everything, to be honest, because they got themselves into a massive mess where they do not have enough people working to handle the current workload. They had months to hire new people on, and are only doing so now. They dug themselves a ditch, and now they’re basically burying us in it, which is fun, but not at all surprising). So, my time is very limited, plus going through medications makes my energy levels go up and down randomly (so some days I have a ton of energy so I get a ton done and others I don’t have any/can only get one or two things done). So, I can’t reasonably manage multiple blogs at the moment (mainly because I get anxious being slow and when drafts build up). I’m also, admittedly, feeling very insecure about my characters here/my OCs (I can’t explain why, nothing at all happened, though it could just be a dip in creative energy from being stuck at home for so long. It’s easier to come up with ideas when there’s actual source material I find, probably because it involves less thinking haha). 

So, ultimately. my plan, for when I’m ready to come back (whenever that might be) is to either do a mass clean of this blog, move everyone to the vampire blog, or simply remake (the problem with this blog is that while I’ve been away, for whatever reason, it’s been drowned by spam/bot blogs. And when I say drowned I mean it. I have no idea how or why. I’d honestly like to remake, but I don’t think I have the energy for it so there’s probably a good chance everything will get moved to the vampire blog eventually, but it, again, depends on my energy level. But, at this point in time, making a new blog sounds actually awful haha. Or I’ll clean this one out, but, again, moving to the vampire blog is currently the easiest option I have available. If I stay here, I’ll probably change my url. I’ve had this one for ages and I’m not feeling it anymore haha). And, another important note, for whenever I do clean up this blog/move to the other/remake, I will only be keeping my OCs (plus Blair because he’s basically an OC, let’s be honest :p). At this time, I don’t have any plans to cut/remove any of my OCs (aside from, possibly Alis. So, yes, even though I’m eventually going to combine blogs, all 12 vampires are staying they’re a found family I can’t get rid of any of them it would be cruel. Eventually I’d like to make my FE OCs fandomless, but that’s a lot of effort given how heavily influenced by the source material and lore of their respective games Ira and Berlin are). I honestly don’t think this impacts much since 90% of my threads on here were with my OCs to begin with, and I think that’s what most of you are here for anyway haha.     

When I do get around to getting everything fixed up, and I’m ready to go again, if we had any threads I’m more than willing to keep any relationships are muse’s already had (if they’re friends, lovers, a certain tree that would like to murder Ambrose, interacted at all - whatnot, that will remain ‘canon’ to my muses). Again, this very well could be months from now, though, I know it most likely won’t happen any time soon. If, months from now, you still want to continue a specific thread when I am back to writing here/wherever I end up going you’re welcome to tell me. Otherwise, I’ll drop them since, obviously, it’s been months and will be months still (and then we can just start something new from where we left off). 

She had hoped for the words, expected them, basically begged to hear them, but still they stun her into silence. He wants to stay with me. He wants to stay with me. He wants to stay with me.

The words fall, a handful of drops in a dark well. Sending ripples across the still, undisturbed water. Which circles out. Which becomes a wave. Which rises, like a tide. He wants to stay with me. The tide is warm. It sends a tingle down her spine. It tightens around her throat. It is kind. Unbearably kind. She chokes on it. She shudders. The tide fills her to the brim and then, ah, the warmth; trickling down her cheeks; as if it were blood, as if his kiss were a glass shard, cutting her skin.

‘Ah… I–’ It surprises her – she didn’t, wasn’t – expecting to be moved. He already said it, didn’t he? She already knew it, didn’t she? It’s as if he’s given her something with those words, something undefinable she didn’t have before. Suddenly she’s holding onto something – more than just his form. Her hands have found something. After months of reaching in the dark they bump into something solid, something they can grab, something that feels familiar. What is it? What does it feel like? A long-lost childhood toy. A mother’s hand on a feverish night. The trinket of a friend you’ll never meet again. Her father’s gaze never met hers directly, but Remo’s always did. Without hesitation. Without guilt. Without doubt. It always said: I care for you, I choose to be with you, and I have no regrets. Like that, yes. Exactly like that. It soothes. It assures. It relieves. It hurts. For months she’d been chasing for the end of a cut thread, not knowing where it’d lead. Ira’s had become intertwined with hers; stumbling into her life, injured and doomed and full of guilt, but now he’s willingly tied a knot, connecting them by choice. She’s still searching, but no longer alone.

Sharp, shaky breaths and sobs. Her throat closes on her every time she tries to speak, releasing a sniffle or hiccup instead. Easy, she wants to tell herself, easy. But her body keeps shaking. The tears keep spilling. ‘I’m sorry,’ She manages at last, pushing the tears back with the palms of her hands, but relentlessly, they keep flowing. She wants to hide them. Why? Tears never ashamed her before; she doesn’t have that kind of pride. Why? Because Ira – it’s not his fault, she’s only relieved, he’s only kind, because he will misunderstand – she’s not sad, but happy,

‘sorry–’ 

because she means to say thank you, but the apology keeps spilling from her lips, just like how her tears keep on spilling; a dark well, overflowing.

    He feels the salty sting of a lukewarm liquid against his blistered palms - fingers thick and rigid and barely feeling from years of baring a sword like a second set of lungs, before he truly begins to grasp the muffled, strained sound of the chokes that echo through the cavern. And his thumb, instinctively, smooths over the first pinpricks of tears he feels from where his palms still cup her cheeks - drying her skin to the best of his ability as they begin to tumble. And, yet, he can’t keep up with them, and feels them dampening his own skin until the tips of his fingers are next to useless against the onslaught. Her warm skin begins to feel cold and moist against his hold, and the tremors that rack her own body feel like his with how they make his wrists tremble as he tries to hold her firmly in place. 

     Her voice cracks as even the faintest of words attempt to escape, and he cannot make out what she wants to say above the sound of her sobs and labored breaths. And he doesn’t know what to say to mend the hurt that he assumes he’s caused her. Words have never been his strong suit. He was a soldier not a politician. He could cut the finest of threads with the tip of his blade, even blind. But he cannot weave words of comfort or great meaning - cannot soothe whatever it is that aches her with the sound of his voice. Because his voice is rough and weary from years of war and violence. 

       He does not deserve to her hold her jaw within his grasp. He does not deserve to reach out with such delicate gestures of affection he barely knows how to use. Yet, he wants to. He wants to reach out to her; to remain tethered to her. To continue on beside her long after this journey of theirs concludes. And it isn’t something he should desire, but does regardless. A choice he has made of his own free will for, perhaps, one of the first times in his life. But that does not give him strength to feel anything but helpless when her sobs echo against the stone walls of the cave. 

       And it cannot, possibly, give him the strength he needs when the only words she can speak are an apology he can’t imagine why she would offer to him. His hands withdraw from where they had been resting upon her cheeks. The burns upon his visage sting as he feels his face distort in a mixture of pain and concern. Her tears are louder than the rain the drones on outside. Greater, still, than the thunder that screams in the distance. And more agonizing than the pang he feels within his chest upon hearing her repeat those words as if that’s all she can say. 

      He swallows around the lump in his throat. It almost tastes like a wad of cooper on the way down. “Ciri,” he tries, but his voice doesn’t feel loud enough to overpower her grief. Or rather, what he assumes is grief because he has never known someone to cry in relief or happiness. The world he had grown up in was cruel. Tears had only been shed when someone was lost or dying. Morbid as he realized that sounded at the moment. “Are you all right?” He knows it’s a stupid question the second he asks it, so he takes a moment to compose himself. If he wishes to stay with her as he claims he does, that’s not what he should be saying or doing right now. So, he inhales and reaches once more.

It was impossible to read Kier’s expression especially with tears in his eyes. It was impossible to read Kier’s expression even when his eyes were clear. He really didn’t know a whole lot about the other but that didn’t stop Oslyeus from feeling. The people that had done this to Kier and forced him into an eternity of walking these planes, likely with a sense of unfinished business albeit Oslyeus wasn’t entirely sure, those same people couldn’t be hardly different from Oslyeus. His hands were stained and the more he walked with Kier, the more he knew he would never be able to fully wash them. All he could merely do was shake his head when Kier’s first words sunk deep in his chest and wallowed at the pit of his heart. He wanted to protest, expose himself so that perhaps Kier could truly judge him but the only ones that could rest their claims about who he was were those that were already lost. His hands now empty of anything to hold onto, he curled his arms in on himself. His hands held opposing elbows and he watched with upturned brows as Kier explained that all people are awful. What he didn’t anticipate to hear was Kier admitting to a similar path of cruelty. He blinked in brief confusion before his drifting gaze reflected a hint of possible understanding and he flicked up his vision once more to meet steadily with Kier’s. “…” Lips were solidly sealed, stable now without a quiver as the last of his welling tears trickled down to the tip of his chin. His unwavering eyes set a new tone in the air, where his soul was shaken by spilling a truth he didn’t want to admit but now seeing Kier warn him with an unbreakable atmosphere. It almost felt as if he couldn’t reach out a second time and touch him, not without getting burned.

A silence swept between the two and cobwebs seemingly settled at the back of his throat, making every thought tangled in a web before he could speak it. He could easily listen to Kier, take his words while he still could and turn away from him. Why he bothered going on any of these adventures with the spirit was a mystery to even himself when he should be more concerned about taking care of himself. Yet, his feet remained rooted and his mismatched hues vibrant in the moonlight unfaltering as he watched Kier. Lips finally parted to let his tongue subtly wet drying flesh from the chilled night. “I’m not looking to forgive you… whether you are or aren’t forgivable,” he quietly answered, fingers dug into his sleeves and he could practically feel the dirt caked up beneath each nail. He could feel the soil building up with every stroke he carved into the Earth. “I… can’t judge you either but if someone severed my head o-or killed me at all when I wasn’t ready to let go, I think… I think I would be pretty upset, too… is—is that what you’ve done all these years? Seek revenge…?” He didn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon even if he stood as if he was huddling from unseen rain. It wasn’t so far from the truth. Inside, he felt as if he was battling a downpour and he braced for when all the truth would come flooding out of his mouth. But he kept his tribulations submerged whilst he wanted to know more about Kier. He may not have much of a reason to stay but he found less of a reason to leave.

   Silence had never and would never bother him. In all of the centuries he’s clung to this earth, it’s been a constant in his never ending life, and he has always welcomed it. Even if the quiet that stretches out between them now is strained - a shadow against the buzz of fireflies and the hum of the wind as it struck the tombstones nestled around them. Unspeaking witnesses to their rather one-sided conversation. Oslyeus’s opinion is of little concern to him. Nothing will change who or what he is. The how and why had been set in stone decades ago, and no amount of pressing or rubbing or worrying would change that. Hate flowed through his veins like the grimy blood that stained the ugly scar wrapped about his neck, and anger composed the very muscles which kept him afloat. He is nothing but his rage. Nothing but his want for revenge. All people are awful, including himself, and those words might as well be etched into his tombstone, assuming it still stands. Despite that; however, his expression is largely devoid of emotions. Unlike the other, he doesn’t cradle himself to shield his nonexistent heart from the hurt because he feels next to nothing these days. Only an overwhelming bitterness. He has been dead too long to recall what the warmth of acceptance and companionship feels like. 

      When Oslyeus does finally part his lips to speak it’s with great difficulty. And even that response earns little more than the incline of his brow and the slight purse of his lips. His hand came to rest upon his hip, posture relaxed despite the thick air that had settled in. “It wouldn’t matter much one way or the other if you were. You can’t change the past.” Words are stated easily and in the same flippant manner as always. Even if the past could be changed, he wouldn’t bother saving his own neck. He’d come to terms with his death years ago. Yes, at first he had been bitter and angry about that too, but it was but a tiny flame compared to the raging inferno that kept him tethered to this wicked world. A world he only served to make all the worse by festering within its hold. Free hand brushes the tips of calloused fingers against the muddled cloth that now wrapped about his neck. Black ooze staining worn cloth as his nails pressed into it, as if they wanted to tear at the stitches keeping his head in place. He’d been a king once - with all the pride and wealth and power one could have. Now he looked like a runaway clawing at old wounds. 

     His head tilted to the side, thick, dark hair tumbling against the slender curve of his shoulder. His eyes betray nothing about him. A dark void that seems hollow and unreachable. He has never been easy to read, and that makes it easy for the breathless chuckle that vibrates against his tongue to slip past his lips and out into open air. “You think I want revenge on the people who cut my head off? You think the reason I’m still here is ‘cause I’m upset about that?” Humor slowly trickles into his voice. If only it were that simple. The country he had once ruled over was dead and gone. Fallen not long after he had been overthrown. They were fools too busy fighting amongst themselves to stop others from tearing them apart. He couldn’t have cared less about it. Perhaps a part of him feels guilty for how awful he had been, but, truth be told, he doesn’t. When he thinks back to those days he feels nothing. His chest is empty despite how it trembles with his gentle laugh. “That’s cute at best, I couldn’t care less about it.” 

Tagged by: @tyraunt​ (thank you)!

Tagging: @teniras​ (this is a horrible meme to tag Guardian in, but I’m doing it anyway because Amy called them out), @maskedmuses​ (Azuna), and @go-forth-and-live​. That’s it. Steal it! 

The Omen 

blood pours from you easier than most people. wherever you go, you’ll be watched. children will learn fear from you. the people you love will be scared to witness. they’ll shut their ears and put you away and once you’re gone, you’ll be hollowed until all that remains is the message. you were always the first sign of what was to come. in time, people will forget you were even a person. yours is a silent epilogue. if you are saved, it will be out of the spotlight. you’re more than your baggage, omen.  

personality: wise, selfless, pessimistic

 counterpart: the taken

tagged by : @whisperonn​ (thank you)! 

Velia wasn’t exactly sure what would happen after she announced the weird smell. She thought that maybe Cyryl would ask her where and she would try to pinpoint it with her enhanced senses. It would have been the most logical thing to do she thought. That wasn’t what happened though.  

She couldn’t help but watch in a mix of horror and fascination as Cyryl got down and started trying to sniff out the scent himself. Velia couldn’t even help as she watched, fascinated by the lack of sleep her boss had to even consider this. It would be rude to tell him though and he seemed pretty determined to find the source on his own.

“It smells like rotten eggs… and maybe just rot?” she said hoping that would help him somehow though she wasn’t sure how useful his nose would be. Velia was surprisingly proven wrong though as he found something for her to smell. Kneeling down beside him, she didn’t have to get nearly as close before scrunching up her nose in disgust. 

“Yeah that’s the smell,” she said, covering her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. “I don’t remember it being here before, it’s really hard to miss,” she added on feeling like it was overpowering all the other chicken smells. No wonder why the chickens were so restless if they had to deal with this smell in their own home. Chickens can smell…. Right? Velia was sure they did, but she didn’t know enough about chickens to be completely confident in that answer. 

“If it’s from the circle wouldn’t it have been here last time?” she asked not sure if the smell was getting worse since it was just left here to linger. Since it smelled rotten maybe something was rotting under the floorboards… or something was buried there. 

   His index finger and thumb are still gripping his nose as he peers at the dent beside what remains of the circle that had been etched into the wood. His eyes are watering, and he can’t tell if that’s from how rotten the stench was or simply because he hadn’t slept in God knows how long. All the chickens screeching in the background didn’t help, but he also couldn’t blame them. He was human, and the smell was downright toxic to him. He can’t imagine how they must be feeling. Hadn’t the farmer taken notice of it and looked into it? Surely he must have come in here multiple times. Then again, it had taken him a minute to notice it. Still, it doesn’t sit right with him. He can’t wrap his head around how someone wouldn’t, eventually, catch the scent. His nose wrinkled, and he turned his head to look up at Velia. 

     “Yeah, I have a hard time believing we’d miss something like this. Not with your nose. But it’s strange. I don’t recall the farmer complaining about a smell.” His hand reached out to trace the circle, finger tips gathering up smoke and ash where they brush. Rubbing them on his pants, he finally releases his hold on his nose. The floorboard feel loose beneath his knees, and there’s a dent in the floor that sinks beneath his weight. There’s a hole here. Had it been there last time? Oh, he does not like the dread that settles into his stomach at the thought. “You would think...” he numbles as he shifts back, waiting until the floorboard stop creaking beneath his weight before he stops. 

       “Step back.” It’s the only warning he gives before he grabs the loose boards with his bare hands, and starts pulling. The wood splinters and screams, but comes up easily, tipping from rusted nails as he hurls the old wood off to the side. The scent hits him like a storm, and he almost coughs up his coffee, but, somehow, manages to keep it down. His arm comes up to cover his nose and mouth as he peers down into the shadowy depths of the shallow hole. There’s a tarp laid across something beneath these boards. Something that smells like rotten eggs and weak-old chicken that’s been left out in the sun to rot. It occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t be having such thoughts while in the company of so many birds. 

       Willing it away, he reaches out and tips the tarp up. Hot bile rushes to his tongue and he falls back on his rear at the sight that greets him. Flies buzz up from where they had been nipping at rotting flesh. Decay having set in on the mangled body. And he has to will himself to crawl back over to the hole and get a better look. The body is still mostly intact, save where bits of flesh have been pulled away from the bone where flies have wormed their way into the corpse’s exposed tissue and muscle. Holes from the talons of the chickens evident upon the arms and legs that are folded neatly at the sides. He braves a glance at the face and his heart sinks. The man’s bread is full of grime and dried blood; silver strands painted with muck, and the wrinkles on his face have become sunken alongside empty sockets where maggots had already devoured his eyes. He’s not an expert and he sure as hell isn’t qualified to ID a body, but he’d met the farmer once before and he doesn’t forget faces.

    “ …In other words, we just don’t bother giving him one? Got it - no juice for Revvy it is! ” No sooner had she finalized this decision, Vivian soon maneuvers her thumb and index around to form a circular shape while pointing the rest of her remaining fingers upwards in a ring gesture. Honestly, the fact she was so quick to abide by Gabriel’s personal opinion was comically ridiculous, but at the same time, she’s also gullible enough to believe almost anything that spews past his lips. “ Still, I guess I can let him sip from mine as a small treat, since it is widely believed ‘sharing is caring’! ” By that point, she’ll let her hand fall back down against her leg, before swinging her arms up and down  ALONG  her sides.

    “ Let’s see… I’ll probably get us the mango and lychee flavors, methinks, ” Vivian goes on to hum in carefree contemplation before pausing once Gabriel asks a question so obvious, she’ll absentmindedly turn and blink with disbelief. Wait, did he seriously not know something as crucial as that? “ Uh… with money, of course? Duh! How else are you supposed to buy stuff, Gabe? ” Vivian finally exclaims, allowing her voice to grow incredulous. “ Seriously, it’s a good thing I’m paying; otherwise, you will be coming back to the shrine, empty-handed! ” Little by little, she’ll then proceed to shake her head. “ Goodness, did you never go shopping even  ONCE  during your entire lifetime? I’m starting to worry about you, Gabe… whatever would you do without me and Revvy by your side? ”

    He nods in approval. Revelin was unworthy of one, if only because he was currently way and, thus, couldn’t wait in line on his behalf. Sound reasoning, in his opinion. After all what vassal makes their lord do such a mundane yet bothersome task? A terrible one, so this is a fitting punishment for his failure. “Indeed.” At least Vivian appears to understand his logic. She is truly a breath of fresh air when compared to Revelin’s constant complaining. Why her uplifting spirit is something to be admired. He would much prefer to listen to her babble about juice than be subjected to another hour-long lecture by the younger fox spirit explaining how and why he should tend to his own shrine. Absurd. He would never. He can’t agree with her ‘sharing is caring’ remark, but he supposes that’s one of the flaws humans possess. Always eager to indulge one another. “Hmm, I suppose I can allow him to get away with that much for your sake. But do be careful, if you spoil him too much he might cease working for me!” The fact that even has such a concern reveals that, despite his pride, he’s not as secure as one might believe. Revelin, after all, has been working beside him for centuries now. If the other had any intention of leaving, he would have long ago. Still, it’s a thought that haunts Gabriel every chance it gets.  

Far too distracted with the current conversation he lost all focus on their previous subject revolving around Kier’s age. His eyes searched and searched Kier’s. There was something cut deeper than the wound around his nape and Oslyeus could taste it in the atmosphere. There was something so overwhelming about it that all he could do was stand still before the other, a hand on his shoulder while he heard the soft click of Kier’s tongue. He knew he shouldn’t pry, he hardly belonged in Kier’s story at all, much less was he deserving to hear what tragedy took place. The question had left his lips before he could reel in the thoughts and with baited breath, he waited. Half of him was expectant to be repelled and denied anything. The other half? He merely hoped that he wasn’t. He knew Kier well enough that often times he avoided any personal subject matters and had a knack for averting his attention to someplace else. It often happened that he realized hours later that he hadn’t gotten an answer for his curiosities and by then, there was no use in trying to scrounge it up again. And why did he want to know so badly? It was merely reopening wounds that had long since mended into scars. Just when he was sure that Kier was coming up with the perfect diversion, the words that filled the space between made his chest twist into knots. Why do they do anything to anybody? Why were the wars that raged across the seas? Why were the parents who abandoned their young? Why were those that were wrought by poor upbringings to drudge up pain upon others later on? Why did they persist when they knew it hurt and disregarded the fact that he was ALIVE? Why could see his name traced between the lines? 

He stood so still that he forgot that he was standing at all or that he was holding a conversation with Kier. A burning sensation was welling up in his eyes, flesh reddening at the brims. Even as Kier tried to tease him, he wasn’t deterred or distracted. Only a distraught countenance painted him and when he blinked, he felt the wetness cling to his white lashes. A feeling was enough to snap him out of staring helplessly at the spirit before him, a breath broke and trembled as he lost eye contact. His blurred vision spotting the torn skin and blackened blood blotched upon his pale, cold flesh. Without thinking, he hastily brought his sleeve up to his own teeth and began to tear away at the cuff. The gesture was so easily done, it was obvious he had done this plenty of times in the past. With a clean tear all the way around his sleeve, he shook his head and brows furrowed into a scowl even though his expression was far from stern as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Sorry—” he blubbered, he hardly gave Kier a chance to back away from him. He would have flicked the fabric up and caught the other end, catching the spirit around by the back of the neck with the material he just tore. “—s-sorry… I wish I had an answer for you… I wish I knew why. I wish I knew where the cruelty began a-and if it’ll ever stop… but I—I’m not un-guilty either… I’m… I’m just as awful…!” His teeth clenched as he confessed, his chest constricted so much so that he wasn’t too sure he could say another word without sobbing. There was a long pause as he tried to gather himself but instead he rasped, “… we’re all awful…” his grip tightened on either end of the fabric that he had caught around Kier’s neck. Swallowing roughly, he tried to attune all his focus on tying a neat knot on the opposing side of Kier’s wound. “… maybe you aren’t…” he added softly. “… some… some people a-and creatures aren’t all awful…” had Kier let him finish tying the fabric, he would have let his hands slip away and fall limp at his sides. “I know that…” he murmured, lifting one arm sluggishly to rub the back of his wrist against his eyes and rid of any lingering residue.

  He’s not sure what he had been expecting. Maybe he had thought Oslyeus would yelp at the mention of ghosts grabbing hold of him or maybe he thought he would roll his eyes at him. Perhaps he’s take another swing at him for toying with his fears so casually or maybe he would simply get fed up and storm off. But the moment he notices how deathly quiet the other has gone; how still and rigid his body became, he realizes he had made a mistake, and that he should have never opened his mouth in the first place. He looked visibly distraught as stared at him, and Kier’s fingers twitch involuntarily at his side at the sight; black liquid and grime pressed beneath his nails scrapping against his palms. Wasn’t he the idiot who had mocked Oslyeus for being too soft? So shouldn’t he have been the first person to realize his little speech would backfire? Right in his face, too. But he’d never been a delicate person. Oh no, long before he had been sharp claws and jaded breath and still heart he had been golden daggers and prickly silk threads and stained crown. Other people were rarely a thought in his head - so selfish and unmoving and wicked. So why did he suddenly decide to start caring again now? It’s been 300 years - it’s too late for him to start thinking this way.       

    Then he notices the first sign of wetness pricking at the other’s eyes, and he knew, already that he had messed up - that he had thrown himself onto a landmine, but he hadn’t realized just how irreversibly awful he had fucked up until Oslyeus started crying. Lips purse uselessly. All he knew how to do was hurt and lash out and bite with his tongue - he didn’t know how to soothe old aches or comfort new ones. Fingers flex against his skin and he flicks them uselessly against the air just to get rid of the grime and ooze he had collected from scratching at the stitches wrapped tightly about his throat. And the stupid thing was, he’d be the first to admit that he had deserved it. He’d be the first to admit that he was rotten and unhinged and heartless. Oslyeus’s tears were wasted on him. And he wanted to back up when the other tore the cuff of his sleeve off because the idea of mopping up not-really blood from a ghost was laughable at best, but he didn’t. He lets that material catch about his neck despite his best judgement.     

      The sound of Oslyeus’s voice echoed through the graveyard, and clawed against his ears. He wanted to laugh. If Oslyeus is awful, what does that make him? Nevermind, he’s known the answer to that question for a few centuries now. And maybe he would have laughed - normally. Maybe all of the anger welling up inside of him would have exploded in a violent frenzy if the person in front of him right now had been anyone else. But all he ca manage against Oslyeus is the click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He wants to snap - he had anger trapped within him that’s been building up over multiple decades now, but it all fizzles out when confronted by Oslyeus’s honest grief. For once, he’s the silent one, not moving until the other is finished tying that useless wad of fabric about his neck.  

He truly worries too much about her. Or maybe her frailty in the past has made her come off as too weak. Weaker than she truly is. She’s not as fit nor sturdy as he, but she knows endurance, knows the harsh sting of blisters on her heels from walking too much, the numbing tiredness of a day’s walk. Her intention was to bother him, but it’s Ciri who ends up – childishly, perhaps – with a pang of indignation, annoyed, and her lips scrunch together in an almost-pout. Is playing in water straining herself, in his opinion?

‘I know that,’ She admits with a sigh; slightly disappointed but not surprised that he doesn’t take her teasing question as it is; a joke. Even aiming for his precious sword has only a minimal effect, or, perhaps not. She’s surprised that he reaches for her hand. For a moment, she resists, surprised by the sudden gesture. Ira steps forward and loses his balance, and his grip tightens, and pulls, and as he loses his footing on the wet stones, so does she fall along with him – into the water and onto him. A loud splash announces their spectacular fall. Not just her feet and hand, but her legs, wrist, and shirt are now drenched, and Ira is almost fully submerged in the knee-deep water: sprawled out under her. Her hands are on both sides of his shoulders, barely steadying herself. Her knee, sprawled across his lap, half-straddling him with her legs. A strange position to be in. She stares for a moment; because their faces are unusually close to each other, and their bodies are touching in a manner she doesn’t usually – initiate. Not just his clothes, but his hair, too, has caught drops of the river ( they’re liquid pearls, rolling onto his cheeks and his scarred skin. she wishes they had healing powers, like mermaid’s tears are said to have ). Even on accident, he manages to act as a shield for her. Another reminder that he’s been trained to act like one, though this time, it truly might have been a lucky hit ( even so, she worries that she pushed the role onto him, again; how easy it must be to fall into the role of protector, around such a fragile, flightless bird ). Who knows how sharp the stones of the riverbed are – only when she realises that he might be hurt, Ciri remembers to speak instead of stare; ‘Ah. A-are you alright?                    I– I’m okay,’ She adds, anticipating his concern before he voices it ( or, before he worriedly begins to feel her hands all over, searching for a bruise or injury, as Ira always does ). Ciri wants to draw away. They’re in an odd position, and an uncomfortable one for Ira, certainly ( if there are sharp stones cutting into his skin, he’s probably too taciturn to tell her ); she wants to draw back hastily, does so sloppily, and forgets to check whether her current footing is a stable one without her hands next to Ira’s shoulders on the stones. It’s not. She thuds into his chest while trying to scramble up; ‘Ah. S–sorry.’ 

A shield, again; involuntarily, she’s using him as one. This is a situation in which she should ( would ) laugh at their clumsy fall. Instead, it is a silly way in which she reaches a conclusion, which calls for a solemn resolve. ‘–Ira.’ She steadies a hand onto his chest, distancing herself from him by pressing herself up ( or, him further down? ), ‘–Please, eh, teach me how to fight. A little. ’ If she’s capable of holding her own, he won’t need to fret over her all the time, and she wouldn’t need to depend on him so often – as comfortable as his steady, reliable hands are, she can’t rely on them always. Just like how he, didn’t keep relying on her eyes to tell him what his surroundings were like.

And then he’ll be allowed to be worried about tiring her out.

     Thick clothes cling to his skin where he’s now sprawled out beneath her thanks to their less than graceful fall - almost drowned by the water he can feel licking at his neck and weighing long hair down against his back and chest. Heat from the sun he can feel burning at his shoulders makes the water lukewarm at best - sweat just barely cooled off by its touch. And the air has mostly vanished from his lungs, stolen from him when she collided with him in his stumble. He can feel her weight half on him, and the meager heat that rolls off her damp skin where he can feel just the faintest brush of her arms at his shoulders. And he can feel the gentle tickle of her breath where it rolls off of his features; knows she’s only a hair’s length away from him (hers, not his), but isn’t made to feel uncomfortable by their sudden closeness. Either because his lungs are still struggling to regain air, his elbows are propped up painfully against the uneven rocks beneath his body to keep his head above water or because he’d grown accustom to her touch some time ago when she had tended to ugly wounds or when she had reached out for him. But he won’t deny that the position he currently finds himself in is less than ideal with rocks poking at his skin and water threatening to cover his head if he slips again. 

      And Ciri is quiet. Not that she’s loud to begin with, but the silence that drags out between them is somewhat unusual. He parts lips to ask if she’s uninjured, but the moment he does he’s greeted by the sound of her voice, and relaxes where muscles had tenses on instinct. “I am fine, forgive me. I lost my footing.” He wants wants to lift his hands from where they’ve fallen beneath the water to trace his fingers along her arms to double-check that she didn’t cut herself in the fall, but he resists the urge to do so after she answers a question he hadn’t asked, but both were well aware that he would have had he been given the chance to. He shifts when he feels her weight leave him just a bit, assuming she is getting up, but barely has a moment to make sure his grip on the rocks beneath are steady before he feels her fall against his chest and he’s left without air all over again. 

       “You needn’t apologize. Are you still all right?” He’s sturdy; remains firm despite the position he’s in; rocks digging at his sides. He doesn’t have the same muscle mass he had when he had served the Mad King - but he’s still built like a soldier and training is still engraved into the very marrow of his bones. He will always be willing to take the fall for her. Grateful that he was the one pinned against the bed of the river rather than her. Perhaps it was something he had done unconsciously when he realized they were going to fall. His body barely gives when he feels her hand press into his chest, using him to a lever to push upwards - arms lock in place, and muscles contract to make up for the newfound pressure on his chest. 

      Her words; however, make his lips tug downwards - creases the skin between his brows and makes fingers roll into loose fists where they remain stuck against slick rock. He has never liked the idea of her fighting - he barely even tolerates the idea of her being around him when he has a bounty on his head. The thought of endangering her terrifies him, and he’s been struggling to come to terms with the fact for months now. She wasn’t made for violence - she had soft skin and a gentle voice and quivering heart. But he supposed, most people weren’t made for violence - it was something beaten into them before they even knew how to breathe properly. But the fact remained, he would likely die before her. Then, in this world so often torn by war, what would she be able to do?