An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The Steadfast Soul by Posingasme
It's been a very long time since Sam considered he might one day have peace. But a hunt has left him changed, transformed into something entirely new, and he has a chance at a happy, beautiful life. He fights against this peaceful retirement. And if you know him, you know why...
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The galaxy sees Obi-Wan Kenobi as the exemplary Jedi of the Order: calm, collected, and carefully detached. The galaxy sees Obi-Wan Kenobi as the aloof, accomplished being that he is reported to be: defeated a Sith when he was but an apprentice; training the Forceâs son right after his knighting.
But if the galaxy truly has eyes, it would see that the child Kenobi is in his heart is not quite that much older than the child he carries under his wing. If the galaxy has eyes at all, they would see that deep inside Kenobiâs closet, hidden behind boxes and neatly folded clothing, there lies a redwood box that has not been opened in years. They would see inside the redwood box, where a coppery-auburn braid coils around a late Masterâs lightsaber, silently reaching for its green Kyber core.
The galaxy does not have eyes.
ââ
The Council exits the Chamber of Ceremony in murmured chatter, leaving only the pair of former Master and newly-graduated Knight. Obi-Wan looks to his student, now a grown Jedi, with such pride in his chest that he cannot help but smile. Anakin is flushed and grinning ear-to-ear at him, bathed in the streams of early afternoon light that flow freely through tall windows. For a fraction of a second Obi-Wan wonders what it feels like to be Anakin right now. What it feels like to be knighted by your Masterâs own warm hands and have them squeeze your shoulders as you think of a good gift-wrapping sentence to give them the severed braid in your hand.
Anakin fiddles with the golden cord of hair, twists it between his fingers. He has never been able to hide his fidgeting, and it isnât as though Obi-Wan minds. Itâs not quite proper, yes, but it is harmless. And quite endearing, although Obi-Wan would keep this remark to himself.
âShall we walk back?â
Anakin nods, and shuffles closer to him as they traverse the hallways. Silence is barely noticeable between them, silken as a spring breeze and warm as a morning kiss. Anakinâs hands are firmly tucked into his sleeves, where Obi-Wan imagines heâs still wrapping and unwrapping the Padawan braid around his fingers. Obi-Wan stops himself before he could start wondering to whom Anakin is going to gift it. A Padawanâs severed braid is the most cherished, tangible remnant of their apprenticeship; the physical embodiment of their will and wits; the culmination of years of blood, sweat and tears. It is no small matter to decide who to entrust it, and it is often the case that a newly-knighted Jedi would place it in the hands of their former mentor as a token of gratitude and a treasured memento.
It is a privilege to be able to do so.
But, evidently, it is by no mean a mandatory practice. Some former Padawans do give their braids to their closest friends. Legends even have it that one old Master was known for having encased her braid in amber, like a pendant, and put it around the neck of her beloved varactyl. While uncommon, it isnât unheard of that a former apprentice gave their Padawan braid to someone other than their Master. It is ultimately the decision of the individual fresh Knight, and they have no obligations to disclose the destinator of their braid nor the reason therefore. It should be keenly noted that not receiving their former apprenticeâs Padawan braid does not reflect a failing on the part of the Master.
So Obi-Wan tells himself, when Anakin never comes to him with the golden braid.
It has been months after the ceremony, and he still wakes up some mornings wondering why.
He shouldnât. It is utterly unbecoming of a Jedi to be so mired in such small matters. He knows better than anyone else that Anakin, his apprentice, his student, his friend, and often his mission partner, does not owe it to him. The fact that he is not Anakinâs first choice only means that somebody else has been cherishing Anakin better than he did. That is not, strictly, a Masterâs failure. A personal failure, perhaps, but such a line of thoughts is unbearable and so opposed to the Code that Obi-Wan has little choice but to forfeit it. Moving on and living in the present is the only way, especially for a Jedi Master of his station.
And if he cannot, if the buried wounds fester and ache on lonesome starless night, then he has only himself to blame.
ââ
âKnight Skywalker⌠Skywalker!â
âIâm sorry,â Anakin dodges a hapless stranger whoâs caught in the chase. He hops towards the stairs. âI need to go. I swear Iâll be back by this evening!â
âYou have never kept that kind of promise in your life!â The healer whoâs chasing after him is breathless and exasperated and, well, angry, although anger is unbefitting of a Jedi. âKnight Skywalker, come back here!â
âSorry!â Anakin yells, without much thought, climbing over the spiral stairwayâs railings. He drops himself down. Air reels through his hair as he free-falls, and he lands on his feet, only mildly aching where his shoulder has just been bandaged.
The ground is a little dented, but thatâs not his problem.
He dashes across the corridor and catches a lift tube before the healer can send someone after him. Usually, this is where they give up - no use wasting so much time and effort on a runaway patient when there are plenty others in need - and Anakin is fairly sure this time it is the case too. He just has to be safe. He needs proper time, this time.
Because Obi-Wan has just gotten back to the Temple, and Anakin is finally ready.
He can just follow his Masterâs light - he can do that even when theyâre separated on an unknown mountainous planet covered in perennial fog, much less here in the Temple where the Force sings in their veins. He runs so fast heâs nearly gliding through the air, feet barely touching the ground. Obi-Wanâs signature beckons him in the most innocuous way, their bond glowing despite the conclusion of his apprenticeship about half a year ago. Maybe itâs because he hasnât done what all former Padawans are meant to do; although Anakin doubts the dissolution of a decade-long mental link is as simple as giving away one piece of yourself. Heâs going to do that now, in any case.
(He hopes that doesnât do anything to their bond, really.)
The door to their quarters slide open and Anakin hurries in, already smiling to feel Obi-Wan so near. Obi-Wanâs pack is still on the couch, and his shuffling in the kitchenette can be heard all the way from the main door. Anakin makes a beeline for it.
âMaster,â he greets, so sure that Obi-Wan has also picked up on his presence that it surprises him a little to see Obi-Wan turn around slightly wide-eyed as if unaware. Still, his Master nods with the subtlest smile under his whisker and a tilt of the head. And then immediately he furrows his brows.
âAnakin, those are infirmary robes. Did you justââ
Anakin cuts in; thereâs no time. âI have something I need to give to you.â
Obi-Wan stares at him for a blank moment. âIs it something so important that you felt the need to cut your own treatment short for?â He gestures, eyes already intent on the bandages peeking out from under the too-loose vee of Anakinâs tunic.
âIt is.â Anakin nods firmly.
He bids Obi-Wan to stay and wait and disappears into his bedroom. Heâs kept it in a little leather pouch with suede drawstrings; dark and nothing elaborate, but sturdy and waterproof. He would have embroidered it if he had the time; although, if he thinks about it, it might be better this way, purely practical in a way that Obi-Wan would have appreciated more. Anakinâs not sure, really. He is working himself into nervousness and he needs to get out of this room before his courage fails him in the most crucial moment.
His Master is still standing in wait in the middle of the living room by the time he returns. Briefly Anakin wonders why Obi-Wan doesnât take a seat; but there isnât any time to question that now.
(Maybe if Anakin is any less distracted by the fluttering in his stomach, he would have noticed Obi-Wanâs hands bunched beneath his great sleeves, the way he always does to hide his own anxiety.)
He positions himself before Obi-Wan, almost stilted with his sudden compulsion for solemnity. He blinks, and smiles, and he thinks he has whispered Here it is, or he mightâve only thought the words and hoped Obi-Wan heard them too. Either way, he opens the pouch, gingerly pulls out the item. He takes Obi-Wanâs hand, and presses into it a bracelet.
A bracelet made of Anakinâs braid.
Gentle light sheens on the golden cord. Strung onto it are a few Japor beads that has taken Anakin quite some time to find. They rest snugly against the old bands - red, for piloting, and blue, for mechanics - that Obi-Wan has tied on with his own hands years ago. The ends of the braid are secured with lightsaber-steel caps and connected to a clasp. It lies serenely against the valley of Obi-Wanâs palm, almost glowing in the early afternoon sun.
Silence. Anakin peeks at his former Masterâs face from under his lashes, chewing the inside of his mouth. Heâll be the first to admit that he has gone the unusual route. He can already imagine some other Master calling it frivolous, even. Not that he cares. He doesnât care about anybodyâs possible comment or side-eye at this moment, or ever. Just Obi-Wanâs.
And Obi-Wanâs eyes are wide and his lips are parted, but that is about it. Although surprise has never shown itself so blatantly on Obi-Wanâs face, itâs still such an understated display. Anakinâs bravery is slowly seeping down the drain, his heart thumping madly all the way to his trembling fingertips.
âI, uh, I made it,â he says, just to say something. Obi-Wanâs lashes flutter as if he is only blinking himself awake then. Anakin swallows thickly, and continues, âI figured that, um, this way, you could wear it if you wanted to. You donât have to wear it, of course! You can keep the pouch. I mean you can keep it with the pouch. Keep it in the pouch.â Anakin winces, tripping over his words. âIâm not going to take it back, itâs still my Padawan braid which youââ
âThank you, Anakin.â Obi-Wan smiles, and Anakin freezes. His Masterâs warm hand with all of its familiar calluses closes around his own, squeezing around his knuckles in a clear display of affectedness. Thereâs that flush across Obi-Wanâs face too, tinting his ears pink.
âYouâre welcome. Sorry it took so long.â Anakin grins, even as the corners of his lips wobble and his eyes sting because Obi-Wan is unclasping the bracelet right then and there. He intercepts. âHere, Master, let me put it on for you.â
So he takes Obi-Wanâs hand and he rolls down the undertunic sleeve a little bit; he secures the braid around his Masterâs wrist and he pulls the sleeve above it, safely concealing that part of himself on Obi-Wanâs person. He pats the spot and canât bring himself to pull away.
Obi-Wan doesnât, either. He leaves out a moment before speaking up so tenderly: âAnakin?â
âI justâŚâ Anakin struggles. He lingers in the liminality between apprenticeship and knighthood even as they stand as equals, tethering himself onto the former Master with whom his bond still shines. âI need a moment.â
Obi-Wan holds his, and now both of their hands are linked together, fingers upon fingers, closing around each other like layers of mutual protection. Their hands are about the same size now, arenât they? There was a time when his whole spread hand would fit into Obi-Wanâs palm like a tiny starfish, no more. Anakin brushes a thumb over this one scar on the back of Obi-Wanâs hand. He canât remember who saved whose life that time. Itâs not like there is a difference, anyway.
â...So do I,â says Obi-Wan, so quietly. Something wavers in his voice and glistens in his eyes and Anakin can see it. Anakin sees it all.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: DCU (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Slade Wilson
Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Slade Wilson
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Slavery, Canon-Typical Violence, Spells & Enchantments, magic binding, forced stripping
Summary:
For many years now, Deathstroke has been a scourge on Dick's kingdom. Powerful, dangerous and unstoppable. So cue his surprise when one day an unknown warrior drags the mercenary into his court in chains. Dick's not sure how this stranger was able to capture someone as deadly as Deathstroke, but one thing is certain. He can't pass up the opportunity to take their most ferocious opponent off the battlefield once and for all, no matter what it costs him.
**
Dick knows something's not right the second the man's brought into the throne room, pulled to kneel two dozen steps away from the raised steps of the dais. He knows him. Of course he does. It would be impossible for him not to know the champion warrior of some of his father's greatest enemies. A ghost, flitting from army to army, until he lands and becomes an all-too-real giant on the battlefield. Death-dealer and warrior, larger than life and so proficient at his work they say he must have struck a deal with some god. Something to give him his terrible strength and his inhuman speed.
Deathstroke. Here. Kneeling in the middle of his throne room with his wrists in dark metal manacles and one cold, pale blue eye fixed right on him.
Jason, standing at his side, shifts forward and half-draws his sword with a rasp of steel, coiled and bleeding wariness through the faint thread of the bond they share, prince and defender. Cueing off him, the rest of the guards in the room shift to be at the ready as well, and still Dick doesn't feel entirely at ease. It isn't solely the bleed from Jason's emotions, either.
"Your Royal Highness," the man standing beside his kneeling enemy says, voice high and proud, even as he bends into a deep bow.
Essek is born (again) in weight, screaming bloody against the world.
They canât shut him up for three days. He screams, and screams, and screams.
Then he goes quiet.
His mother kneels down in front of him crib and holds her stomach and prays to something, anything. Her boy has ancient eyes, and she knows what that means. Donât take him away from me, she whispers to the dark.
He is named something different â something to soften the hard edges, something new. His mother takes pains to shape him into something without guilt. Whatever you did, she whispers into his hair, It does not define you. There is a sad knowing in the lines of her face every time her son takes a stick and draws a perfect circle in the ground. He scratches words in the dirt that mean nothing to her, in a language (languages) that she could never comprehend.
Essekâs (second) mother loves him, and is terrified.
He grows. He grows tall, with dark skin and pale hair. He listens to the stories of old and does not falter:
The Mighty Nein, some whisper.
Essekâs eyes glow with old, deep knowledge.
âThis is not you,â his mother says, desperate. She clutches onto his forearms and digs her nails deep into his skin. âYou are my son. I brought you into this world.â
The boy nods. At night, every night, he quietly washes off the blood.
The world knows what the Kryn do, the way their Beacons burn light and life into barren landscapes. Essekâs mother has never met one before, but she has seen the funeral procession of a madman. It glittered bright atop a wooden platform, flanked by six individuals and a ghost. The wizard had been painfully tall and stooped half his height, the halfling quietly holding his hand. They are aged, and wearied, and terrifying. Essekâs mother never wants to see them again.
Essek grows taller, and taller, and taller, until his mother barely reaches his collarbones. He is only fifteen, but she has to push him down to stare into his eyes. She knows the evil the Kryn bring. She knows what they have done to her boy. She will not let them take him away from her.
âThis is not you,â she says, and he nods, every time. There are puncture marks dotting his arms and bruises along the soft slope of his muscles. They arenât in a bad way, but they arenât very well off, and Essek goes out every day to daydream in numbers and chop wood. âWhatever anyone tells you, you are my son. Mine. I will not allow anyone to take you away.â
He nods. He is a good boy. He always does what she tells him to.
.
Essek wakes up on his sixteenth birthday and throws up.
He settles against the sheets for a long moment, vomit painting down his front, body shaking. His mother is in the next room over, humming quietly to herself. Essek strains his ears, but she doesnât seem too upset, so he allows himself a moment of quiet reflection.
Here it is, he thinks. Thereâs almost a relief to it. Here is my weight.
He gets up. He changes into clothing that does not stink. He bundles up his bedsheets and takes them outside to the river, careful not to let his mother see as he slips past the door. Essek has gotten good at these kinds of things, over the years.
Essek settles against the bank of the river and struggles to keep breathing.
(He is dead).
(He is dead).
(He is dead).
What is the last thing he remembers?
Yesterday. Shivering underneath the covers of his bed, waiting for his mother to fall asleep so he may do the same. She has grownâŚ.intense, over the past week. More so than his previous birthdays, which had always been accompanied by cake and a thick, rolling sense of terror.
What is the last thing he remembers?
Caleb Widogast, glowing in fire.
Essek allows his lips to curl into a smile. He lifts his face towards the sun and bathes in the light. Underneath his skin, something itches. A knowing. This is not for you. Essek finds himself trembling under the onslaught, but canât quite bring himself to go back inside. In his house, there are â were? â countless parasols of every shape and colour. All gifts. He remembers Jester Lavorre â he remembers Jester Lavorre â coming over and going onto his roof and snapping them all open, to make a giant tent. He had loved those parasols dearly.
The knowledge that they are no longer necessary makes acid swill hard in his stomach.
It is for the best, Essek decides. There is a chance they may no longer even exist.
âAldan,â his mother calls. Essek feels a jolt of unfamiliar fear pass through his stomach, and he takes a moment to settle it. It has been a long time since he has felt anything this strongly.
No. It had been yesterday.
(No. It had been sixteen years ago).
Breathe, he tells himself. The thought is absurd.
Essek gets up and turns towards their house. They have no neighbours â there might have been people, once, but his mother had moved them somewhere quiet and out of the way. He wonders about that, sometimes. What the world would have been like for Aldan, had Essek not existed instead.
âComing,â he says. He leaves his sheets soaking against their small dam and walks towards the house.
His mother is shockingly pale against Essekâs own, darker skin. He has never met his father, to his knowledge, but he wonders sometimes. She is short, hair translucent and eyes a milky white. She takes his face into her hands and stares into his eyes.
âMy boy,â she says. Essekâs skin crawls. âHappy birthday.â
âThank you, mother,â Essek says.
âCome, I have prepared breakfast,â his mother says. She grabs his wrist and drags him roughly into the kitchen, positioning him down onto the seat. In front of him is a plate of buttered toast, bacon and eggs. Essekâs stomach rolls.
âThank you, mother,â Essek says again.
He does not know where they live. His mother had been very careful to keep all knowledge of their whereabouts from sweet, sheltered Aldan. My good boy, she says.
âGo on,â she says. She sits down in front of him and doesnât look away. âEat up.â
Essek eats up.
.
At night â for years now â Essek has dreamed of a scruffy wizard with the kindest eyes in the world.
Even before he remembered Calebâs name, he knew his face. There are scars lining every inch of his body, face drawn tired beyond age. Essek remembers smoothing down the wrinkles with his fingers, remembers curling up against his side and shaking.
You are not absolved, Caleb Widogast tells him. But you are loved.
Thatâs all Essek has ever needed, really.
.
At sixteen years old and one day, Essek gets up early and leaves.
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Image for âThe long french mistakeâ fanfic, published on Ao3 in Spanish: (Mostly Gen, Dean/Castiel, Humor)
ÂżA quiĂŠn no le habrĂa gustado que el capĂtulo de âThe French Mistakeâ durase mucho mĂĄs? Pues aquĂ estĂĄ mi versiĂłn de esa idea y, sobretodo⌠¿Y si Jared y Jensen tambiĂŠn intercambian los puestos y estuviesen en la realidad de los Winchester? Una maldita locura, vamos.
Title: Cooking Lessons
(Posted on AO3 as part of Happy Steve Bingo: Drabbles & Droubles)
Relationship: Steve Rogers & Wanda Maximoff
Rating: PG/General Audiences
Warnings: Language?
Word Count: 200
Additional Tags: Drouble, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Cooking, Team Bonding.
Summary: A cooking class with the new recruits.
Notes: Written for the Happy Steve Bingo prompt âCooking.â For the sake of time frame, this takes place post-AoU.
A cooking class with the new recruits. It seemed like the kind of thing Nick would suggest just to be a smartass and yet here they were, paired up and waiting to make a late breakfast. Luckily, Sam and Nat were responsible for the eggs. Pancakes, on the other handâŚ
âHave you ever made these before?â Steve asked Wanda as he set the ingredients on their station.
âSomething similar, yes,â she said tentatively, âThough ours are thinner.â
âWell, youâre already ahead of me. I canât even boil water without burning it.â
She smiled slightly and they divided up the tasks, Wanda working with the wet ingredients, Steve with the dry. Their work and small talk both came easily. Soon, despite her initial reservations, Wanda had made perfect golden pancakes and Steve beamed with pride at her bright, accomplished smile.
âNow you try,â she told him encouragingly.
Just then, their instructor rushed across the room as flames erupted on Rhodey and Visionâs station.
Steve shrugged, âBurnt bacon is still bacon.â
âAnd still burnt,â Wanda added dryly. Then blinked, looking worried that maybe sheâd said something wrong, but Steve just laughed.
âTrue enough. How about some burnt pancakes to go with it?â