#ficet

Tears slipped down his face; one after the other and all following the same dirt streaked path. It was as if his heart itself had turned to liquid and was now streaming from his eyes. “This isn’t right,” he cried to himself, “It shouldn’t have been you.”

“Who should it have been?” a voice asked from behind him.

The boy turned around and blinked several times so that the image of the man that stood nearby became clear. He was a tall man with dark hair slicked carefully back from his forehead. Green eyes stared down at him - powerful eyes that shined with intelligence.

The boy didn’t answer at first. He just shook his head and turned and looked back at the ground. Although no body lay before him, it was clear that he was seeing someone in his mind.

“Who should it have been?” the man asked once more.

“M...Me,..” the boy choked. The words, the admission spoken aloud, caused more tears to rush to the surface, “It should have been me!”

The man knelt next to the boy. “Why would you say such a thing?” he asked.

“Be...because my brother was the strong one,” the boy said, “He...he wouldn’t cry...like this. And everyone....loved him.”

Reaching into his jacket, the man pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away the boy’s tears. “People loved you. They still do.”

“Not like Ci..not like my brother,” the boy said, as he leaned forward and clung to the man’s shirt. “They’ll ask me how I could survived and he didn’t. They’ll be...disappointed!”

Clumsy hands reached up to embrace the sobbing child. “I’m not disappointed,” the man said.

The boy became quieter as he seemed to process the words. “What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“I came here to rescue a boy,” the man replied, “A very strong boy. A boy who could survive unspeakable horrors.”

“But...”

“There are no buts,” the man interrupted, “I came here for you - the survivor. Never forget that. You have more worth than you have ever guessed.” Standing up, the man straightened his suit. “What is your name?” he asked.

The boy’s eyes blinked quickly as his gaze slid off to the side. “Ciel,” he answered.

“I see,” the man said, “Well, my name is William.” He held out his hand. “We need to leave this place.”

‘Ciel’ hesitantly took the offered hand. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“As I said, I’ve come to take you from here,” William replied, “I want to take you somewhere where you can truly understand your own strength...and the beauty of your own name and identity.”

“This is stupid.” Ryan mutters to himself as he lays out the ouija board. “This is stupid!” He says to the apartment then and it’s only silence that responds back to him. “Fuckin’ stupid.” He’s back to muttering to himself.

Lights dimmed, fingers resting lightly on the planchette. “Okay, um… dude, are you there?”

The landlord had joked that this place was haunted, but it was cheap and not an absolute piece of garbage so he signed the lease, not thinking anything of it. After all, ghosts weren’t real.

Until they were.

Small things at first. Salt spilling over, cups and cutlery missing, the radio turning on and off of its own volition. Things that he, for the sake of his sanity, ignored and passed of as coincidence. 

Until he woke up to ‘hello’ written in a script he had never seen before in the dust of his windowsill.

He had screamed and kicked his sheets up and had considered, in that moment, that he really ought to call the landlord and demand he be released from his lease but where else would he go? Okay, Magee, line up some apartment options and then, then you’ll go.

It was quiet then for a few days before it happened again, although this time it wasn’t a greeting.

It was an apology.

He had stared at it, bleary eyed and still half asleep before he tipped his head up to the ceiling. “It’s ok. Um… hi.” For a minute there was nothing and in that minute Ryan felt like a complete idiot.

But then the curtains rustled inwards and the lights flickered just so and holy shit there was a ghost in his apartment.

So that’s how he found himself buying a ouija board at Target. It’s cheap and tacky and there’s no way that whoever or whatever this is is going to respond. Maybe he was going insane. Wouldn’t that be great. Maybe it was just a drug house filled with poisonous gasses and his final act in life would be contacting the supposed dearly departed in the middle of his apartment.

He groans and shakes his head, moments away from pulling his fingers away when it happens. A pull, insistent. He watches in horror and fascination as the planchette pulls towards H and then I.

“Hi…” Ryan whispers in amazement.

M-Y N-A-M-E I-S M-A-T-T

“Hi Matt.” Ryan says a bit weakly. “Um, so uh… w-what’s uh, going on with all of this? Like, w-why are you a ghost, in my apartment?”

M-U-R-D-E-R-E-D 

“Oh. My God.” Okay, he’s going to be sick. The planchette feels hot under his fingers.

Y-E-A-H S-H-I-T S-U-C-K-S

“I mean yeah, d-dying would suck. So you were murdered in…in this apartment.” Oh God, the stain in the corner. He had uncovered it when deep cleaning. “Please don’t tell me it was the landlord.”

Blessedly, Matt pulls him right over to the NO indicator.

N-E-E-D Y-O-U-R H-E-L-P

“M-me!?” Just some chubby guy who was trying to start a Let’s Play channel on youtube who had a serious smoking problem. What the hell was he supposed to do!?

YES.

“Okay, with what.”

F-I-N-D T-H-E-M

a pause.

P-L-E-A-S-E

I love this so much I wrote a lovely, long Composer AU ficlet for it, featuring bonus Fabian and Mamma Valerius. I hope you enjoy!

E/C is everyone’s sinking ship and my heart breaks 10 times a day over them

And yay for Ed Sheeran! Galway Girl is basically everyone’s favourite song here right now.

It is quite beyond Erik’s grasp to understand how someone so tiny can talk so much. Quite beyond his grasp, but a true fact nonetheless. He knows he was not a talkative child - he can hardly be described as a talkative man for that matter - and if what Freyja has told him is anything to go by, then Christine was a quiet child too.

Fabian takes after neither of them in that regard.

“…and there was a little brown bird that hopped across the bench and he was tiny, Papa, and I wanted to pick him up and feel him but Uncle Far said I’d scare him and then the bird turned his head and he was looking at me, Papa! He was looking at me, and I was really still because I didn’t want to scare him and he was very nice but then some other boys went running past and he flew away and…”

The tumble of words flow over Erik, and he smiles at his son sitting in his lap, nodding at him even as his fingers fish his watch from his pocket. The moment Fabian sees the watch he breaks off about the birds and reaches for it with his little hands, curling them around the chain.

“What time is it, Papa? Do you soon have to go?”

Erik nods, and consults his watch a moment before gently disentangling Fabian’s fingers. “We will be going as soon as your Maman is ready. Now you’ll be a good boy for Mamma Freyja, won’t you? And go to bed when you’re supposed to?”

Fabian nods, his hazel eyes wide. “Yes! And Mamma said she would read me a story about little birds! Will you dance with Maman?”

Erik cannot help his smile getting wider.

“I’ll do nothing but dance with Maman.” It’s really the only reason he’s going to the blasted gala - to dance with Christine. He’s missed so many of them in the past that it wouldn’t matter if he missed this one, but he always does his best to make them with Christine. She loves dancing at these things, and he must confess that with her they are not nearly so tedious. His heart flutters at the very thought of getting to hold her in his arms, cradling her close and kissing her hair and her arms warm around his waist and so help him but he won’t leave her arms all night if he can help it.

Fabian is saying something, another rush of words that break off when the bedroom door creaks open and Erik looks up to see Freyja join he and Fabian, and a moment later, trailing behind her Christine.

His breath catches in his throat at the sight of his wife. She has not let him see this dress until tonight, hid it with Sorelli so that he would not stumble across it, and he is grateful now that she has. It is shade of pale lilac, with slight traces of blue that draw out her eyes, and her golden hair is twisted into a chignon, simple and elegant and beautiful and all the words disappear from his mind so that he can only gape at her.

Her eyes meet his, and she smiles, and his heart falters a beat.

“Maman.” Fabian’s soft voice breaks the spell of the moment, and Erik gasps a breath, his little son launching himself off his lap and running at Christine. Christine chuckles and leans down and sweeps him into her arms, and Fabian’s giggle fills the air. Tears prickle Erik’s eyes and watching them, his wife and his son, Fabian chattering at Christine and Christine smiling back at him, and it’s ridiculous to cry over such a thing but if he could he would capture this moment, and hold it forever.

“Erik.” Freyja’s voice is soft, and the divan shifts as she settles on it beside him, her eyes kind as she smiles at him. “What do you think?”

Of all the things in the flat that had suddenly doubled in number, though, one thing had not.

A continuation, a bit short admittedly…

Want to read the first part? You can find it in my fic digest thingie; http://asksersavan.tumblr.com/fan-stuff

— “Ser Bow…” Jasper’s green eyes darted around the courtroom for indications of reprisal, having spoken out of turn, “What are you doing? ‘Tis not the way of pawnlaw to hold human trials.”

"Perhaps it should be." Bow replied resolutely, however, upon noting the other’s confusion the Ranger elaborated; "We are tools… Weapons of the Arisen, to be guided by their hand. I’ve heard arguments between humans about such matters: A sword does not intend to kill a person, ‘tis the wielder’s intent that does. Also, ‘a bad workman blames his tools’ is a popular adage on the streets of Gran Soren."

"…" Jasper’s mouth opened, then promptly closed. He had no argument to chastise the Ranger with, beyond that it was ‘the way of the pawnlaw’ and, clearly, Bow had no interest in such a position; so the pawn fell silent.

Bow continued; “I know the pain of losing one’s master…” For a moment the Ranger’s steely eyes looked to a far off place; a private one that Jasper felt it would be impolite to intrude upon. “I know its dull ache all too well. My master was a rash one… And foolish too.”

"Ser Bow… you should not speak ill of the Arisen — of any Arisen!"

"My master would be the first to call himself both those things. No doubt he’d find my disparaging comments to be something of a novelty. He used to oft enjoy a good nagging from me…"

There was something about Bow that stood out in Jasper's opinion; a certain oft-sought quality in the pawn community. The closest word he could think of was ‘authenticity’, but it also extended to the more abstract concepts of ‘fluidity’ and ‘naturalness’, too. Things that a pawn lacked, but eagerly sought through emulation and study.

He found himself wondering all sorts of things, as irresistibly inquisitive as a pawn ought be, and before he could stop himself he asked;

"What makes you the way you are, ser?"

Bow ran a hand through his long black mane and mulled over the question, “What makes me the way I am? I’d of thought it to be the least of your concerns right now.”

Whilst it was a fair point, Jasper was persistent, “You’re avoiding the question Ser Bow…”

"Aye… You’ve the right of it." Bow laughed, "We’ve no time for idle chatter, for we must make a choice."

"A choice?" Jasper found choosing things a challenge, from armour to underwear; he’d relied on Kiltia to do all that.

A brief recollection of her, laughing and smiling at him, entered his conscious at the trivial thought. She had seemed happy, for the most part, yet all had ended in tragic circumstances. She was dead and he faced the brand, and exile; not that he particularly cared for his own safety, though he’d heard the brand was fiercely painful.

"Aye, a choice," Bow spoke in hushed tones, out of the earshot of the nearby guard, "We stay and plead your case, or we run."

"What?" For once Jasper had an answer, "I should stay so that justice can be done."

Bow sighed, perhaps a little disappointedly, “I thought you might say that. Fine, let’s battle it out in court then.”

"We shouldn’t fight the Ladyser, ser. Her magick is well fierce."

"Oh. You took that literally," Bow smiled, "I didn’t mean that, I meant a proverbial battle; a battle of wits."

"How can you not mean what you say as literal?" Jasper wondered, aloud.

"I’ve seen human folk bend words as often as I’ve bent arrows. Maybe that’s why?"

It was a poor reply, even by Jasper’s willing-to-embrace-all standards but he had no time to query it as the Judge’s chamber door opened and in marched 5 of the Hall’s most senior Judges, the wizened crone being one of them. Something about the row of ancient pawns, swathed in formal robes, seemed truly terrifying to Jasper. It was as though he was stood before a gathering of Lich’s who were ready to rend his flesh with their cruel magicks…

"We have discussed the matter," the Ladyser said, "And have come to a conclusion…"

—

Furious hot pain, red as my scales, floods through me. At long last I know defeat and it is as bitter as it is sweet. 'Tis strange to know an end at last, I'm not sure I am ready to die but I will embrace what e'er is to come with opened wings.

My conqueror stands afore me and looks as dumbfounded now as they ever have since we first did meet. I cannot help but chuckle. My mirth is short lived as a queer sensation courses through me and I know my death approaches. It sweeps over me turning my proud crimson scales to mud and ash. 

The hearts that have burned and throbbed so strongly in my chest abandon me and I am reminded of what coldness feels like. I look up to the brooding sky and grin as much as my kind are anatomically able to.

One thought persists in my mind: Are you happy, Savan?

In the last moments, as my body groans and readies to rot, I feel something some... spirit... escaping this fleshy cage. Perhaps that ‘spirit’ was what drove me to fly these lands in search of a mere man? Yet, I am a man aren't I? Yes, I recall it now. My taking up arms against a great red dragon. Fighting to the ends of the earth and beyond. Meeting Savan. Being defeated by him. Losing my humanity in favour of scales. Yes suddenly I recall it all well, ‘tis vivid in my mind.

I tormented so many afore this one. Drove them mad with grief, killed their loved ones, made them question themselves and, even, forced them to linger like a ghost in order to do my bidding and temper the promising hopefuls after.

Yes. I have played my part well. I have been the epitome of wicked and cruel.

  Have I not done well, Savan? Have I not served you absolutely?

  Forgive me, but 'twould seem I can serve no longer.

  Mayhaps this is the one to deliver us both from the clutches of eternal madness...?

Fare thee well, my Lord...

...