(no subject)
Stolen from artemisrae:
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Yeah there's a reason none of this stuff is finished, because I am terrible at finishing anything ever.
ASSASSIN'S CREED
Something Altair/Maria. I don't think I was planning for it to be shippy, per se, so much as I wanted to explore them getting to know one another after Bloodlines, because Bloodlines did a kind of shit job developing them.
Beneath the cowl shadowing his face, Altaïr's eyes were only just visible, glinting in the sun's glare. "You are a very passionate woman, Maria. How did you come to be so?"
"There must have been something in the wine back home," she joked, shrugging noncommittally. In truth, the compliment oddly discomfited her. Many words had been used by many tongues to describe her, and 'passionate' had never been one.
She expected him to press the question; for all the time she had known him, their relationship had been built on sensing the chinks in each other's armor and firing well-honed barbs to those spots. Instead, something in his stance shifted in a way that would have been indiscernible to someone who hadn't spent so much time observing how an Assassin fought. In the movement, his hood dipped fractionally lower, swallowing much of his face in shadow. In the light, his lips twitched once, only slightly, as if they'd meant to curve at the corners.
He was quiet for a moment before speaking. "It is a rare honor to travel with one such as you."
BLOOD+
I'm kind of fixated on Minh, Saya's roommate from Lycee du Cinq-Fleche, considering the last she saw of Saya was her fleeing the school covered in blood, and Saya was wearing a dress she'd borrowed from Minh. So I wanted to write something about Minh between that moment and Saya going back to try and pay her back for the dress before the ending.
"Holy shit!"
Normally Minh would be offended to have such language directed at her. She is a young lady raised with manners. Gentlemen aren't supposed to swear around young ladies.
"Did you see that?"
She saw it.
+
Minh does not return to the dance party. She excuses herself from Dung and goes to find a secluded area of the garden, where she throws up.
HARRY POTTER
Dudley and Hestia talking about the Potters.
"She's always like that. I don't think Mum ever got on with her sister."
Hestia looked at him cooly. "You mean your aunt Lily."
"Er, right. My aunt Lily." It was strange to think of her this way, but Dudley realized with some shock that he did, in fact, have--or had once had--an aunt Lily. He'd always known that Mum had had a sister, and that Harry was that sister's son, but while Aunt Marge had never been "Dad's sister" to Dudley, he'd always thought of Aunt Lily as "Mum's sister" (or more commonly, to his now rather pointed shame, "Mum's freak of a sister").
Hestia continued to regard him cooly for a few more moments before sighing. "I'm sorry. I oughtn't be this way, at least not with you. You're at least trying. But when I remember your parents' attitudes, I start to realize what Harry must have put up with all these years--" Here Dudley squirmed uncomfortably, "--and, quite truthfully, it makes me very angry. That boy has suffered a great deal. His parents would never have stood for it, and I don't think he should have to, either."
THE HUNGER GAMES
I don't think everyone in the Capitol was all YAY YAY Hunger Games!!!! when they started, so I wanted to write something about how they came to be that way.
The Games weren't always popular in the Capitol.
The first year, there is an outcry of disapproval. Not publicly, of course--never publicly (not because the citizens in the Capitol were afraid, but because it just wasn't done. Not polite. Not proper). When the President announced the war reparations, Vespillo applauded with the rest of his circle. Teach the district rebels that actions have consequences. A man firing a gun should expect to be fired upon in return; thirteen districts rising up to attempt wholesale slaughter should expect equal treatment.
Panem, as everyone in the Capitol knows, is all about equality. They're all that's left of the time before.
But when they watch the coverage of the President's address laying out the plans after dinner, Prisca smoothes her hands over Curio's hair, still its straight, natural blond--he is only nine, after all--and exclaims in alarm. He is unaffected, of course; the President readily assures the nation that "blame will only be given where blame is due. The innocent have no need to be anxious.
"We are a large nation," the President genially tells Panem. "And we have recently suffered through great turmoil. Division is natural when great distances and differences separate many people. The great nations of the past had customs to keep them united. We must do the same. Tournaments encourage friendly interaction and amicable relations. Through our Hunger Games, we will all get to know one another as citizens of Panem: official to denizen, community to community, and District to Capitol.
"Happy Hunger Games, Panem. May the odds ever be in your favor."
THE OLD KINGDOM
Lirael gets to know her family.
It was when they were finally back at Wyverly College (it being the best-suited place in the area to host the Old Kingdom royalty, and the Border Troops wouldn't hear for a crossing until the royal party had rested) that Sabriel was able to look her newly-discovered younger-sister in the face for the first time. For the strangest reason, the snow-topped Starmount that house the Clayr's paperwings came to mind, but she attributed that to this girl being half-Clayr.
Ellimere was the first to speak, in her typical brusque manner. "So must I call you 'Aunt Lirael,' or is simply 'Lirael' all right? I feel a bit odd addressing someone not even my age so formally," she said with a nervous laugh.
"Oh," Lirael said, wishing her hair was down to hang in her eyes instead of in the neat bun as the nurse had styled it. "No, Lirael is just fine."
PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS
I think this was meant to be a crack fic where Sally invites Annabeth and Nico to celebrate Christmas with them, and then Poseidon, Athena, and Hades all show up. For some reason.
Being a hero of Olympus kind of monumentally sucks sometimes.
Sure, it sounds really grand and all, but when a guy just wants to be a normal teenager and do the normal thing of hanging out with his equally normal (and equally heroic) girlfriend, does he get to?
Of course not. Said girlfriend is too busy making the eternal city eternal again (after we kind of, you know. Trashed it).
Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for Annabeth, really. Her greatest dream is to build a monument that'll last a thousand years.
Rachel's first summer at Camp Half-Blood. Mostly because I see her getting involved in every camp activity ever, and I wanted to write her doing that.
The one stipulation Rachel's father gives before agreeing to let her spend all summer at camp is that he and her mother accompany her.
"No way!" Rachel protests. "They already stare at me enough as it is because of who I am." The Oracle of Delphi, not the daughter of a multimillion dollar corporate executive. "And anyways, you won't be able to get in."
Mr. Dare raises an eyebrow. "I think they'll let us in to see you off," he says. Rachel knows he's thinking: If I buy them off.
He wrinkled his nose. "What kind of name is Camp Half-Blood, anyway? It doesn't sound like the sort of place you should be spending your time."
Crap.. "It's, uh, named after the hill," she said, trying to remember everything Percy had ever told her and everything she'd learned during her few days there last summer. "Half-Blood Hill. I think it's from an old Native American word or something," she added, crossing her fingers behind her back.
Percy helps Annabeth grieve for her broken family.
It's a little thing that sets her off.
He finds her one night after curfew, curled up
"We were a family," she sobs. "It's not fair. We were supposed to always be a family."
Percy touches her arm. "I'm your family," he says. And she knows he means to be comforting, but it's not, because he's here and Luke isn't. She's here and Thalia isn't. They're fractured.
Thalia wakes up at Camp Half-Blood and finds out Luke's an asshole.
The first time Thalia opens her eyes, she finds herself staring into another pair so brilliantly green, she thinks of the sea.
The second time she wakes up, she feels like she's being crushed by the sea. Every bone in her body ached, every muscle burned, her head throbbed with the mother of all migraines, and and her vision was a splotchy kaleidoscope of the rainbow. Also, she had a really weird urge to stand up straight and stick her arms in the air.
What was it Annabeth usually said now? Immortal-something-something. Whatever.
Thalia settled for a nice and succinct fucking hell.
It's disorienting how little she can make out. It's not just her vision that's turned into some freaky Picasso; her ears feel like they've been stuffed up with wax and her mouth tastes like she swallowed about fifty cotton balls. It hits her that she can't really recall anything. She blinks rapidly, clenching her teeth and ignoring how that little movement makes the pain in her head spike. Maybe if she can get her vision to clear, she'll be able to make sense of what the hell is going on. The last she knew, she was standing on a hill as the sun set, facing down an absurdly massive horde of monsters with just a sword in her right hand and Aegis on her left arm. The others were behind her, Annabeth was screaming her name--
"Thalia!" Two people enter the room. The voice that spoke is instantly familiar--Annabeth, Thalia realizes with a rush of relief. She got away okay.
Thalia blinks again and realizes that she's finally able to see properly--or better, at least. Instead of being a blonde blob on an orange stick, Annabeth is a blonde blob on an orange stick with arms and legs.
Huzzah, progress.
"Hey, Annabeth," Thalia croaks. Her voice is hysterically, embarrassingly froggy. She should change her name to Kermit.
"Good to see you, Thalia," Annabeth says, and Thalia is sure Annabeth's smile, if she could see it, would look as watery as her voice sounds.
Thalia glances at the person behind Annabeth and doesn't have to see clearly to know that she doesn't recognize him. "You're not Luke."
They're close enough and Thalia's vision is clearing enough that she can see this stranger pull a face. Annabeth shoots him a look.
"Thalia, this is Percy," Annabeth says. "He's a friend."
Well, I sure hope he is, Thalia thinks. Considering I feel like a truck ran me over and he's close enough to stick a knife in me.
"Uh," Percy says. "Nice to meet you."
Lamer, Thalia thinks.
"Hey," she croaks.
She turns back to Annabeth, and it finally registers that something about her is different. She's taller. Her hair is shiny and clean. And she has boobs, which, last Thalia knew, seven-year-olds weren't supposed to have. Annabeth definitely doesn't look seven. What, she wonders, the hell is going on?
She's about to ask when her stomach suddenly rolls and she passes out.
PERSONA 3/4
Mitsuru shows up in Inaba and gets kidnapped!!!! Shadow time!
When she appears on the news, of course they take her into consideration.
"But seriously, though, I doubt they'll try it," Yousuke says. "Lady's got an army of bodyguards from what I heard."
Naoto frowns in admonishment. "It would be the height of foolishness to jeopardize her safety on the basis of such an insubstantial conjecture. You forget we do not know the extent of the culprit's resources. Yukiko-sempai, the woman is staying at your inn, correct?"
"Yes," Yukiko answers. "It's a neutral meeting ground for their businesses."
At Souji's suggestion, Yukiko agrees to ask her mother about taking on some very temporary part-time help by putting a training slant to the idea. Chie, Naoto, and Rise are chosen for what Yousuke excitedly dubs a "super-top-secret undercover Bond mission!" He tries to convince Naoto to wire them, but she refuses. No one in the group, she insists, has the expertise to operate such delicate equipment (herself excluded, of course).
They're not even through their first evening at the inn when Kirijou Mitsuru disappears.
The team starts making the standard preparations--medicine needs to be restocked, Rise needs the usual insightful information about the victim to pinpoint her location, and so on. Except the information is a bit harder to come by this time; The Kirijou Group entourage tight-tongued and tighter-lipped.
THE QUEEN'S THIEF
Just something with little!Gen and his mom.
The earliest memory Eugenides can recall is of his mother. She's holding him against her chest, and from where his head is tucked against her shoulder, he can hear her heart thrumming in her chest and the gold and ruby earrings dangling from her ears.
When he is older, Eugenides claims it was this moment he decided to become a thief.
------
He slips his hand into the man's coat pocket, but just as his fingers brush the coins a much larger hand wraps around his wrist and yanks his hand away.
"What are you doing?"
Eugenides looks up at his father. He has to crane his head to do so, since he's so small and Eddis's minister of war is so tall. His first instinct is to scowl and say something smart, but that only ever earns him a smarting backside at his father's courtesy, so he opts for honesty.
"Getting more pocket money," Eugenides says, inwardly congratulating himself for uttering an exceptionally clever double-sided statement with such nonchalance. The minister of war looks down at him, unimpressed.
"You already got your pocket money for the month," the man says, familiar frown lines deepening around his mouth.
Eugenides lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. It's a movement he's practiced over and over in secret until it looks natural. On a boy his size, it only looks pompous, but it serves well enough when the cousins are tormenting him. "It's not enough."
His mother finds him later curled up in a corner window seat in the library, warming himself in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the high windows. She drops onto the seat next to him, watching his pointed features even as he turns his face away from her.
"Your father scolded me," she says, and he bristles but does not reply. "He said I shouldn't be teaching you the skills of a thief if you're going to turn around and use them on your parents."
Eugenides sniffs in disdain. "Better than using any skills he'd teach me on my parents."
"Gen," she chides, and he sniffs and turns up his nose in response. He hates the shortened form of his name. "Eugenides" sounds much more dignified. She knew when she was pregnant that the child she carried would follow in her footsteps and her father's, not in his, which was why she'd been so adamant about naming him after his grandfather. Her husband still has hopes for him, and for all his respect for her and her father, he has little for her profession. But Eugenides's mother knows her son's path is a different one, a lonely one: the Thief's path. So she brushes off his disdain for his father's calling, leaving that lesson to the minister of war to teach in his practical way. Instead she asks, "What do you need extra pocket money for?"
"Grandfather's taking me to Attolia in two weeks."
"And there's something in Attolia you want to buy?" she prods.
"No, but it's Attolia," he answers, as if this should be obvious. "They must have all sorts of interesting things. We only have trees."
Gen looks around to be sure none of his cousins are there to see him (though none of them would set foot in the library if their lives depended on it), then scoots across the seat and rests his head on his mother's shoulder. She raises a hand and threads her fingers through his thick, dark hair. "Tell me a story."
"About what?"
"Tell me the story of how Eugenides helped Hamiathes steal the Aracthus," he urges.
"Eugenides again?" his mother says with a laugh. "Anyone would think you're obsessed, little thief." But she complies. She's the only one who tells him the old stories; she's the only one he allows that privilege.
After the death of his brother Lyopidus, Eugenides withdrew from the world. He carried what remained of Lyopidus--nothing more than a few charred bones, wrapped in fine linen--to his father's house and laid them there in secret on the doorstep during the night. Then he departed, climbing deep into the hidden reaches of the Hephestial Mountains to sequester himself with his grief. Many years passed before he was induced to rejoin the world.
His father the woodcutter and the woodcutter's wife, in the meantime, found the bones wrapped in fine cloth and guessed at their origin. They too grieved, but for two sons, for they believed Eugenides lost to Sky's wrath as well. They prayed to Earth to honor her son and his brother in the afterlife. But Earth was nursing the wounds she suffered when she was struck with Sky's lightning, and it was many seasons before she heard the prayers of the woodcutter and his wife. When her pain had finally lessened enough, she went to them.
"Lyopidus I cannot speak for, since I am bound to give no gifts that I do not give to all men," Earth said. "You must ask my daughter who is Hephesita to intercede on his behalf."
"We understand," the woodcutter said, though his heart clenched to think his eldest but one might suffer still past his death. "But Eugenides drank from the spring of immortality; he is no longer just a man. And he is the son you gave us. Can you not ease his afterlife as you eased his life?"
"But Eugenides is not dead," said Earth in surprise. "As you say, he is immortal. He did not burn."
At this glad news, the woodcutter and his wife rejoiced, though they still anguished for Lyopidus. "But why has he not come to us, Lady?" the wife asked. "We are his mortal parents and had no way of knowing he is safe but for hearing it from you."
TALES OF PHANTASIA
Arche/Chester I started writing for sparkledyne
Thunk. The arrow connected solidly with the target, slightly off center. A second followed, than a third, but Chester still couldn't hit the bull's eye. He hissed in frustration, spit the saliva filling his mouth into the dirt, and nocked another, taking careful aim. Judge the distance, line up with the target, compensate for any wind, and--
"Your arrows are too light."
Chester fired just as Arche spoke, but his shot arced away from the target and disappeared among the trees. He swore and turned to glare up at where she sat perched on her broom, watching him with an unreadable expression.
"Since when did you know anything about archery, witch?" Chester asked irritably.
"Since I travelled all over time watching you fight with it, stupid," Arche retorted. "There's a breeze. It's catching your arrows and throwing them off course. You'd have to, I don't know, use heavier metal or something for the heads."
Chester's lips twitched in amusement. "That'd weight the arrows too much at one end. I could use denser wood, but that's not the problem."
"What is?" Arche asked, drifting nearer as she studied the arrow curiously. Chester pulled an arrow from his quiver and held it so the butt was in clear view.
"These are old, so the fletching's thinning out." He shrugged. "It's not a problem since I only use them for practice, but it is a pain."
"Oh. That makes sense." Chester looked up to see Arche twisting on her seat to look at the tail end of her broom. It was well-worn from much use. "When the bristles on this thin out, I have to get rid of them and attach new ones. They don't catch the wind right if I don't."
TALES OF SYMPHONIA
Kratos/Anna fic. Apparently titled "Grace".
It was late afternoon when Anna came to. The first thing she registered was sunshine, and the pleasant sounds of birds chittering somewhere nearby; the second was that she was ridiculously, brain-clenchingly, eat-a-whole-horse hungry.
The third she didn't notice until she attempted to sit up and felt a sharp, jolting pain in her side.
"Shit," she gasped, arms wrapping tightly around her middle. "Ow."
"I see you're awake," a sardonic voice said.
Halfway through whipping around, Anna doubled over, clutching at her wound and gasping. There was a sigh and the sound of boots crunching over the ground, someone rustling through a pack.
"Lie down," the voice said harshly. "You'll tear your wound open though your gut, and then I won't be able to do anything."
Anna felt a hand gently pushing on her shoulder, nudging her towards the ground again. She complied, blinking blearily through wet eyes up at a blur of red and purple. "Oh," she said dumbly. "You. I saw you last night."
"Yes," the person said. It sounded like a man. "You stumbled into my camp. Literally. Now move your arms and pull up your shirt."
She blinked, then her eyes shot open. "What!"
The man sighed. "I'm going to clean your wound, stitch it, and re-bandage it. Your arms and shirt are in the way."
"Oh," Anna said again. "Oh. Uh, okay." She complied, wincing as she moved her arms, and wincing more as she tugged her shirt up, holding it just below her breasts.
"Thank you," the man said. There was the sound of water slopping in a bowl, then Anna grimaced as she felt a cool rag touch her wound. Ow. "Hi," she said, in an effort to distract herself from the pain.
"...Hello," the man replied.
Birds chirping. "I'm Anna." Grimace. "Anna Irving." Grimace. "Who're you?"
"No one of import," he said.
"Aw, come on," she whined. "I've got some strange guy playing doctor on me, and I can't at least know your name?" He pulled the cloth away, and she heard it plunk into the bowl. "I bet you're some creep or something, aren't you? What are you, a mass-murder?"
It sounded as if there was a smile--or at least a smirk--in his voice when he answered her. "...I am Kratos"
Then the needle pierced her skin, and she let out an ear-rending shriek.
A bunch of drabbles from my AU where Anna dies, but Kratos manages to get away with Lloyd and raises him himself. I never really worked out the logistics of it.
With a series of painful-sounding thuds, Lloyd crashed to the ground and rolled across the dirt, coming to a halt with a number of small, sharp stones pillowed under his back. "Owww," he moaned.
"Get up."
Lloyd turned his head painfully to see Kratos advancing on him again. The boy groaned. "Dad, let's call it a rest for the night."
Kratos's face was blank, his eyes impossible to read in the twilight. But when he spoke, there was a hint of irritation in his voice. "Do you want to avenge your mother? Then get up."
With a resigned sigh, Lloyd heaved himself to his feet. He swayed, took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then brought his sword back up into the guard position. Kratos generously gave him another moment to collect himself before attacking.
It was another half-hour, in which Lloyd was beaten thoroughly multiple times, before Kratos decided they could wash up and make dinner. At least these evening chores he mostly did himself, letting his son rest. Lloyd pitched to the ground with relief before his back reminded him of the abuse it had taken earlier. He might have dozed off if it didn't hurt so much. As it was, he saw himself looking forward to an incredibly uncomfortable night's sleep. He could ask his father to heal it for him, but Kratos had this stupid-insane idea that dealing with pain made a man stronger.
Which was why he jolted in surprise when he felt the familiar coolness of a healing spell at his back. When the sensation faded, Lloyd rolled over to see his father watching him from across the fire on which he roasted a couple of small, skinny rabbits. Kratos's shoulder hitched in a noncommittal shrug and he looked back down at the cooking meal. It promised to be a boring one. Dinner hadn't been the same since Lloyd's mother had died. Nothing had.
After they ate, father and son rolled out their bedrolls and said good night. Lloyd stared up at the stars for a long time before he fell asleep.
--------
They had been on the road since he was an infant: Kratos, Lloyd, Anna, and their protozoan, Noishe. They made sheltered camps and never stayed in any one place for a day or two, a month at most. Lloyd learned early on not to share information with strangers, although it was hard for him not to trust them; likewise, he was never far from his parents' sight.
Everything Lloyd needed to know, his parents taught him. What they needed to live by, they caught and killed themselves, or else did odd jobs in the towns they passed through to earn a little money. Anna was a skilled trapper and tracker, and occasionally Kratos would hire the two of them on as bodyguards for a lone pilgrim.
Lloyd picked up quickly that they weren't just living on the road--they were living on the run. There was always an undercurrent of tension between his parents, a feeling that every walking step would turn into a dash for cover. For a few years when Lloyd was very young, they stayed out of towns as often as possible, setting up camps a day's walk away so one of his parents could stay with him while the other went to buy supplies.
Lloyd woke with a jolt. Immediately he sat up and began to dry-heave. He was stifling, as if wrapped in a prickly blanket of heat; the fire crackling to his left did not help. After a few moments the night air began to cool his perspired skin. A soft hand touched his forehead and Lloyd blinked dizzily into a pair of vivid blue eyes.
"Professor, he's awake."
"Yes, so I noticed." A second body moved into Lloyd's fuzzy, narrow line of vision as the first person moved away. He jumped; someone pressed a hot mug into his hands. A white-haired boy in blue backed away from him, an unfriendly frown on his face. Lloyd blinked at him, too. He had an uncomfortable feeling that something was missing--
"Dad!" Lloyd shot to his feet, or tried to. He was rewarded with a sharp pain in his shoulder.
A white-haired woman--the professor, Lloyd realized--put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back to the ground. "Easy," she commanded in a soothing voice. "You lost a lot of blood. I mended the wound, but it's still healing."
"Who are you?" Lloyd asked, looking around the small camp. It made his head spin. "Where am I? Where--" He swallowed. "Where's my dad?"
"I'm Raine," the woman said. "this is my brother Genis." She motioned to the boy. "and this is Colette, the Ch--"
"Just Colette, please," the blue-eyed girl cut in with a polite smile.
Raine glanced briefly at Colette before continuing. "As for your other two questions... You're in the Triet Desert, about two days out from the city. I don't know about your father, however; we found you alone."
A dull ache was settling into Lloyd's shoulder; felt a fresh twinge of nausea. "Alone..."
Sympathy creased the woman's features. "There were signs of a battle where we found you, but the only bodies were those of Desians. Your father may yet be alive."
"Colette?" The chosen looked up at Lloyd's voice. She didn't seem at all surprised by his presence. Lloyd shivered and reflexively rubbed his arms. "Why are you still up? It's kinda cold out here."
A small smile curved her lips. "I can't sleep," she replied. "What about you, Lloyd?"
Lloyd grimaced. "Same. I keep thinking about what Kvar said."
"About your father?"
"Yeah..." Lloyd blew out a breath of air in a gust and dropped to the ground beside Colette. "I wish he and Mom had explained stuff to me before all this happened. Maybe I wouldn't feel so lost now."
Colette was silent for a long moment. Lloyd began to think she wasn't going to say anything, until she spoke up in a quiet voice. "Maybe they didn't know. Everything, I mean. Maybe they didn't know all of it. Or maybe they were afraid. Or...maybe they wanted to protect you. To wait until you were old enough..." She trailed off.
"...Yeah, maybe..." Lloyd conceded. Then he leapt to his feet, suddenly full of excitement. Innocent cheer brightened his face. Colette watched him with a mixture of apprehension and intense curiosity; she still wasn't quite sure how to react to this boy's energy.
"When I was little," Lloyd began, "my mom used to sing this lullaby to me. Of course, I didn't need it when I got older, so she stopped, but... Maybe it will help you sleep?"
He looked so hopeful and earnest, Colette found herself agreeing without any conscious thought. What am I doing? I can't...
Colette hugged her knees to her chest. Lloyd thought with some perverse hope that her eyes looked a little red around the edges. Finally, she took his hand and traced her letters in his palm with a shaking finger.
"'T h e t r u t h i s,'.." she began, then stopped, looking afraid. Lloyd waited expectantly for her to go on. Finally, she continued:
"'T h e t r u t h i s , I d o n ' t r e a l l y w a n t t o b e t h e C h o s e n.'"
The thought had been lurking, hidden, in her mind for some time, and the sudden ability to share her secret wish engulfed her with an uncomfortable blend of fear and courage. She wasn't used to feeling so much, so strongly. It wasn't Chosen-like. If she felt, she might lose the strength to do what she had to do...
So used was he to her constant denial of any wants, Lloyd was taken aback. He stared at her for a moment. "R...really? You don't?"
Shoulders quivering, Colette shook her head. Eagerly, Lloyd went on. "Then don't do it!" he exclaimed, his face brightening with cheer. "We'll find another way to save the world, you and me, together! And, and we'll find a way to make it so you can eat and feel and talk and sleep again, and do all those human things--only you won't have to get rid of your wings, not if you don't want to. I, I mean, they are really pretty, and amazingly useful, so if you want to keep them, that'd be okay. We'll find my dad, and then the three of us, and Genis, and the professor, we'll all travel the world together and beat up Desians and rescue people, and, and..."
He trailed off. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and it was starting to fail on his lips as well. Because beneath his hopeful words, he know what Colette's answer would be...
She shook her head.
"I h a v e t o." Her shaking shoulders stiffened, and the smile that had fallen from Lloyd's face began to brighten Colette's. Lloyd suddenly found breathing difficult. His eyes began to burn. "P e o p l e n e e d m e. A n d I w a n t t o h e l p t h e m. T h i s i s s o m e t h i n g o n l y I c a n d o."
Kratos teaching a younger Zelos how to wield a sword. Because this is my headcanon.
There is sweat on Zelos's brow, and he wants to reach up and wipe it away, but that would leave him open. Can't be open. He grits his teeth and his face scrunches into an almost comical mask of intense concentration. The sweat slides down his skin, tickling his face and leaving it feeling unclean.
"Higher," Kratos barks in his harsh master's voice. "Higher still. Hold it steady--if your blade wavers just a fraction, you leave that much space unguarded. Stop there. Good. Now, come at me."
Zelos shifts his weight, leaning slightly forward on the ball of his right foot and using that to push off the ground. He charges towards Kratos, putting all of his weight behind the one swing of his dull practice sword. With a loud clack that echoes through the high-ceilinged room, Kratos blocks the attack.
The Seraph smirks. "You're wide open," he says, becoming a blur of color that vanishes and reappears behind Zelos, swinging the flat of his blade into the backs of the Chosen's knees. Zelos lets out a loud curse and buckles forward.
The emotion vanishes from Kratos's face once more. "Get up. Pick up your weapon. All right, again."
They have been doing the same exercise repeatedly for the past four days. Zelos is getting sick of it, and he would complain, but he's starting to feel the improvement. There is a certain loosening of tension in his sore muscles that tells him the positions are beginning to feel more natural.
Afterwards, Kratos cleans the swords while Zelos ices the bruises on the backs of his knees (there are definite perks in having a training master who can use magic). He has to spend the next day in court, and he hasn't the slightest idea how he'll manage to stand up for seven hours straight.
"...You're improving," Kratos says eventually. "Your technique is not yet refined, but you don't lack for skill."
"Of course," Zelos scoffs. "I'm the Chosen. That means I'm descended from Mithos himself. Swordsmanship is bound to run in the family."
Kratos gives him a quelling look. "Arrogance is a flaw. It will blind you towards your weaknesses, keeping you deficient."
The Chosen waves his hand dismissively; he's only thirteen, but it's a gesture he's gotten good at.
TALES OF VESPERIA
How Judith learned to fight.
"Where did you learn to use a spear, Judith?" Estelle asks during dinner one night.
They're camped in the Ilyccian forests, halfway between Heliord and Dahngrest. It's been a rare dry day, and the night sky is cool and clear. The question surprises Judith, as she blinks at Estelle in astonishment. "That certainly came out of nowhere."
Estelle's cheeks flush and she wrings her hands in her lap. Yuri watches her without any attempt to conceal his amusement. "I'm sorry. Was it impertinent of me to ask?"
"A little," Judith says, smiling. "But I don't mind. I learned from my father."
Silence meets her words; they're an unintended reminder that she is an orphan of the Great War. Judith isn't bothered by it--she's long since made her peace with her memories, even if they haven't made their peace with her. But it's clear most of the others are: Estelle and Karol wear near-identical expressions of upset, though Estelle's is half-covered by her gloved hands pressed against her mouth. Rita fiddles with her notebook, lips are pressed together in an uncomfortable frown. Raven's expression is impossible to make out, with his head tipped forward so that his untidy bangs shade his eyes.
Yuri, in tune as ever with the moods of their group, grins broadly. "He must've been something, judging by the way you move."
Judy/Raven-ish, after Raven gets Casey's bow. It occurred to me that Judith and Raven are the only two characters who have special weapons of that sort of sentimental value. One of the things I love about the pairing is the parallels between them like that, and I wanted to explore that.
They spend the night camped in the drafty ruins of Temza, and Raven can't sleep. Too many ghosts haunt this mountain to give him any rest; Yuri had just shrugged quietly when Raven volunteered for first watch, and the time's long since passed since Karol's shift should have started. Might as well let the kid get some decent shut-eye.
His hand plays over the smooth, supple wood of Casey's bow, still in immaculate condition after all these years. Yeager knew how to treat a weapon--no harm giving credit where credit's due. Its comforting weight leans against his thigh. The Great War's shadow may still loom over this place, but even if he still feels restless and uneasy in these mountains, for once he has a small measure of peace.
He must be starting to lose focus in his old age, because when he feels a hand brush his shoulder, he jumps and whips around, one hand tightening on the bow and the other flying to his knife. His heart would be pounding right now if he still had one. Then his eyes focus on whoever snuck up behind him and he dives to recover his composure. "Whoa! You startled me, darlin'!"
Judith's brow is low and tight, her pretty little mouth pulled into a frown. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you."
"Nothin' alarming about you but your beauty, as usual," Raven says, and damn that nervous thread still in his voice. He swallows it down. "What's up? Can't sleep?"
"It's my watch," Judith replies. She smoothes her skirt against her legs and sits down. "Funny, I thought there was one between mine and yours."
He shrugs. She's perceptive enough that he's sure she gets it without him having to explain--in fact, considering her own history with this desolate graveyard, she probably understands better than the others. He watches her from the corner of his eye. How she handles it with so much composure that you'd think she isn't even bothered is beyond him.
I have no idea what this was even supposed to be, but the name of the file is "ravendon.rtf".
One of Don Whitehorse's many talents included an ability to taste when a storm was coming. It started as a tingle behind his eyes, an itching in his ears, and eventually progressed to a muzzy taste on his tongue that had nothing to do with overindulgence. He could sense it now, whenever he walked on the west side of the city or sat in on Union meetings.
Crossing paths with the Blood Alliance made him feel ten years older and just damn cold. The new tavern going up with the Alliance's money reeked of small-time gang wars, but at least they had a legitimate excuse for that move; with all the little scuffles breaking out between the two guilds, no Alliance member could step foot into the Don's own tavern without a bruising when his back was turned.
But none of that really mattered at the moment compared to the pressing matter of a full quart of beer.
Now what are the odds I actually finish any of these? \8D/
When you see this, post an excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Yeah there's a reason none of this stuff is finished, because I am terrible at finishing anything ever.
ASSASSIN'S CREED
Something Altair/Maria. I don't think I was planning for it to be shippy, per se, so much as I wanted to explore them getting to know one another after Bloodlines, because Bloodlines did a kind of shit job developing them.
Beneath the cowl shadowing his face, Altaïr's eyes were only just visible, glinting in the sun's glare. "You are a very passionate woman, Maria. How did you come to be so?"
"There must have been something in the wine back home," she joked, shrugging noncommittally. In truth, the compliment oddly discomfited her. Many words had been used by many tongues to describe her, and 'passionate' had never been one.
She expected him to press the question; for all the time she had known him, their relationship had been built on sensing the chinks in each other's armor and firing well-honed barbs to those spots. Instead, something in his stance shifted in a way that would have been indiscernible to someone who hadn't spent so much time observing how an Assassin fought. In the movement, his hood dipped fractionally lower, swallowing much of his face in shadow. In the light, his lips twitched once, only slightly, as if they'd meant to curve at the corners.
He was quiet for a moment before speaking. "It is a rare honor to travel with one such as you."
BLOOD+
I'm kind of fixated on Minh, Saya's roommate from Lycee du Cinq-Fleche, considering the last she saw of Saya was her fleeing the school covered in blood, and Saya was wearing a dress she'd borrowed from Minh. So I wanted to write something about Minh between that moment and Saya going back to try and pay her back for the dress before the ending.
"Holy shit!"
Normally Minh would be offended to have such language directed at her. She is a young lady raised with manners. Gentlemen aren't supposed to swear around young ladies.
"Did you see that?"
She saw it.
+
Minh does not return to the dance party. She excuses herself from Dung and goes to find a secluded area of the garden, where she throws up.
HARRY POTTER
Dudley and Hestia talking about the Potters.
"She's always like that. I don't think Mum ever got on with her sister."
Hestia looked at him cooly. "You mean your aunt Lily."
"Er, right. My aunt Lily." It was strange to think of her this way, but Dudley realized with some shock that he did, in fact, have--or had once had--an aunt Lily. He'd always known that Mum had had a sister, and that Harry was that sister's son, but while Aunt Marge had never been "Dad's sister" to Dudley, he'd always thought of Aunt Lily as "Mum's sister" (or more commonly, to his now rather pointed shame, "Mum's freak of a sister").
Hestia continued to regard him cooly for a few more moments before sighing. "I'm sorry. I oughtn't be this way, at least not with you. You're at least trying. But when I remember your parents' attitudes, I start to realize what Harry must have put up with all these years--" Here Dudley squirmed uncomfortably, "--and, quite truthfully, it makes me very angry. That boy has suffered a great deal. His parents would never have stood for it, and I don't think he should have to, either."
THE HUNGER GAMES
I don't think everyone in the Capitol was all YAY YAY Hunger Games!!!! when they started, so I wanted to write something about how they came to be that way.
The Games weren't always popular in the Capitol.
The first year, there is an outcry of disapproval. Not publicly, of course--never publicly (not because the citizens in the Capitol were afraid, but because it just wasn't done. Not polite. Not proper). When the President announced the war reparations, Vespillo applauded with the rest of his circle. Teach the district rebels that actions have consequences. A man firing a gun should expect to be fired upon in return; thirteen districts rising up to attempt wholesale slaughter should expect equal treatment.
Panem, as everyone in the Capitol knows, is all about equality. They're all that's left of the time before.
But when they watch the coverage of the President's address laying out the plans after dinner, Prisca smoothes her hands over Curio's hair, still its straight, natural blond--he is only nine, after all--and exclaims in alarm. He is unaffected, of course; the President readily assures the nation that "blame will only be given where blame is due. The innocent have no need to be anxious.
"We are a large nation," the President genially tells Panem. "And we have recently suffered through great turmoil. Division is natural when great distances and differences separate many people. The great nations of the past had customs to keep them united. We must do the same. Tournaments encourage friendly interaction and amicable relations. Through our Hunger Games, we will all get to know one another as citizens of Panem: official to denizen, community to community, and District to Capitol.
"Happy Hunger Games, Panem. May the odds ever be in your favor."
THE OLD KINGDOM
Lirael gets to know her family.
It was when they were finally back at Wyverly College (it being the best-suited place in the area to host the Old Kingdom royalty, and the Border Troops wouldn't hear for a crossing until the royal party had rested) that Sabriel was able to look her newly-discovered younger-sister in the face for the first time. For the strangest reason, the snow-topped Starmount that house the Clayr's paperwings came to mind, but she attributed that to this girl being half-Clayr.
Ellimere was the first to speak, in her typical brusque manner. "So must I call you 'Aunt Lirael,' or is simply 'Lirael' all right? I feel a bit odd addressing someone not even my age so formally," she said with a nervous laugh.
"Oh," Lirael said, wishing her hair was down to hang in her eyes instead of in the neat bun as the nurse had styled it. "No, Lirael is just fine."
PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS
I think this was meant to be a crack fic where Sally invites Annabeth and Nico to celebrate Christmas with them, and then Poseidon, Athena, and Hades all show up. For some reason.
Being a hero of Olympus kind of monumentally sucks sometimes.
Sure, it sounds really grand and all, but when a guy just wants to be a normal teenager and do the normal thing of hanging out with his equally normal (and equally heroic) girlfriend, does he get to?
Of course not. Said girlfriend is too busy making the eternal city eternal again (after we kind of, you know. Trashed it).
Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for Annabeth, really. Her greatest dream is to build a monument that'll last a thousand years.
Rachel's first summer at Camp Half-Blood. Mostly because I see her getting involved in every camp activity ever, and I wanted to write her doing that.
The one stipulation Rachel's father gives before agreeing to let her spend all summer at camp is that he and her mother accompany her.
"No way!" Rachel protests. "They already stare at me enough as it is because of who I am." The Oracle of Delphi, not the daughter of a multimillion dollar corporate executive. "And anyways, you won't be able to get in."
Mr. Dare raises an eyebrow. "I think they'll let us in to see you off," he says. Rachel knows he's thinking: If I buy them off.
He wrinkled his nose. "What kind of name is Camp Half-Blood, anyway? It doesn't sound like the sort of place you should be spending your time."
Crap.. "It's, uh, named after the hill," she said, trying to remember everything Percy had ever told her and everything she'd learned during her few days there last summer. "Half-Blood Hill. I think it's from an old Native American word or something," she added, crossing her fingers behind her back.
Percy helps Annabeth grieve for her broken family.
It's a little thing that sets her off.
He finds her one night after curfew, curled up
"We were a family," she sobs. "It's not fair. We were supposed to always be a family."
Percy touches her arm. "I'm your family," he says. And she knows he means to be comforting, but it's not, because he's here and Luke isn't. She's here and Thalia isn't. They're fractured.
Thalia wakes up at Camp Half-Blood and finds out Luke's an asshole.
The first time Thalia opens her eyes, she finds herself staring into another pair so brilliantly green, she thinks of the sea.
The second time she wakes up, she feels like she's being crushed by the sea. Every bone in her body ached, every muscle burned, her head throbbed with the mother of all migraines, and and her vision was a splotchy kaleidoscope of the rainbow. Also, she had a really weird urge to stand up straight and stick her arms in the air.
What was it Annabeth usually said now? Immortal-something-something. Whatever.
Thalia settled for a nice and succinct fucking hell.
It's disorienting how little she can make out. It's not just her vision that's turned into some freaky Picasso; her ears feel like they've been stuffed up with wax and her mouth tastes like she swallowed about fifty cotton balls. It hits her that she can't really recall anything. She blinks rapidly, clenching her teeth and ignoring how that little movement makes the pain in her head spike. Maybe if she can get her vision to clear, she'll be able to make sense of what the hell is going on. The last she knew, she was standing on a hill as the sun set, facing down an absurdly massive horde of monsters with just a sword in her right hand and Aegis on her left arm. The others were behind her, Annabeth was screaming her name--
"Thalia!" Two people enter the room. The voice that spoke is instantly familiar--Annabeth, Thalia realizes with a rush of relief. She got away okay.
Thalia blinks again and realizes that she's finally able to see properly--or better, at least. Instead of being a blonde blob on an orange stick, Annabeth is a blonde blob on an orange stick with arms and legs.
Huzzah, progress.
"Hey, Annabeth," Thalia croaks. Her voice is hysterically, embarrassingly froggy. She should change her name to Kermit.
"Good to see you, Thalia," Annabeth says, and Thalia is sure Annabeth's smile, if she could see it, would look as watery as her voice sounds.
Thalia glances at the person behind Annabeth and doesn't have to see clearly to know that she doesn't recognize him. "You're not Luke."
They're close enough and Thalia's vision is clearing enough that she can see this stranger pull a face. Annabeth shoots him a look.
"Thalia, this is Percy," Annabeth says. "He's a friend."
Well, I sure hope he is, Thalia thinks. Considering I feel like a truck ran me over and he's close enough to stick a knife in me.
"Uh," Percy says. "Nice to meet you."
Lamer, Thalia thinks.
"Hey," she croaks.
She turns back to Annabeth, and it finally registers that something about her is different. She's taller. Her hair is shiny and clean. And she has boobs, which, last Thalia knew, seven-year-olds weren't supposed to have. Annabeth definitely doesn't look seven. What, she wonders, the hell is going on?
She's about to ask when her stomach suddenly rolls and she passes out.
PERSONA 3/4
Mitsuru shows up in Inaba and gets kidnapped!!!! Shadow time!
When she appears on the news, of course they take her into consideration.
"But seriously, though, I doubt they'll try it," Yousuke says. "Lady's got an army of bodyguards from what I heard."
Naoto frowns in admonishment. "It would be the height of foolishness to jeopardize her safety on the basis of such an insubstantial conjecture. You forget we do not know the extent of the culprit's resources. Yukiko-sempai, the woman is staying at your inn, correct?"
"Yes," Yukiko answers. "It's a neutral meeting ground for their businesses."
At Souji's suggestion, Yukiko agrees to ask her mother about taking on some very temporary part-time help by putting a training slant to the idea. Chie, Naoto, and Rise are chosen for what Yousuke excitedly dubs a "super-top-secret undercover Bond mission!" He tries to convince Naoto to wire them, but she refuses. No one in the group, she insists, has the expertise to operate such delicate equipment (herself excluded, of course).
They're not even through their first evening at the inn when Kirijou Mitsuru disappears.
The team starts making the standard preparations--medicine needs to be restocked, Rise needs the usual insightful information about the victim to pinpoint her location, and so on. Except the information is a bit harder to come by this time; The Kirijou Group entourage tight-tongued and tighter-lipped.
THE QUEEN'S THIEF
Just something with little!Gen and his mom.
The earliest memory Eugenides can recall is of his mother. She's holding him against her chest, and from where his head is tucked against her shoulder, he can hear her heart thrumming in her chest and the gold and ruby earrings dangling from her ears.
When he is older, Eugenides claims it was this moment he decided to become a thief.
------
He slips his hand into the man's coat pocket, but just as his fingers brush the coins a much larger hand wraps around his wrist and yanks his hand away.
"What are you doing?"
Eugenides looks up at his father. He has to crane his head to do so, since he's so small and Eddis's minister of war is so tall. His first instinct is to scowl and say something smart, but that only ever earns him a smarting backside at his father's courtesy, so he opts for honesty.
"Getting more pocket money," Eugenides says, inwardly congratulating himself for uttering an exceptionally clever double-sided statement with such nonchalance. The minister of war looks down at him, unimpressed.
"You already got your pocket money for the month," the man says, familiar frown lines deepening around his mouth.
Eugenides lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. It's a movement he's practiced over and over in secret until it looks natural. On a boy his size, it only looks pompous, but it serves well enough when the cousins are tormenting him. "It's not enough."
His mother finds him later curled up in a corner window seat in the library, warming himself in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the high windows. She drops onto the seat next to him, watching his pointed features even as he turns his face away from her.
"Your father scolded me," she says, and he bristles but does not reply. "He said I shouldn't be teaching you the skills of a thief if you're going to turn around and use them on your parents."
Eugenides sniffs in disdain. "Better than using any skills he'd teach me on my parents."
"Gen," she chides, and he sniffs and turns up his nose in response. He hates the shortened form of his name. "Eugenides" sounds much more dignified. She knew when she was pregnant that the child she carried would follow in her footsteps and her father's, not in his, which was why she'd been so adamant about naming him after his grandfather. Her husband still has hopes for him, and for all his respect for her and her father, he has little for her profession. But Eugenides's mother knows her son's path is a different one, a lonely one: the Thief's path. So she brushes off his disdain for his father's calling, leaving that lesson to the minister of war to teach in his practical way. Instead she asks, "What do you need extra pocket money for?"
"Grandfather's taking me to Attolia in two weeks."
"And there's something in Attolia you want to buy?" she prods.
"No, but it's Attolia," he answers, as if this should be obvious. "They must have all sorts of interesting things. We only have trees."
Gen looks around to be sure none of his cousins are there to see him (though none of them would set foot in the library if their lives depended on it), then scoots across the seat and rests his head on his mother's shoulder. She raises a hand and threads her fingers through his thick, dark hair. "Tell me a story."
"About what?"
"Tell me the story of how Eugenides helped Hamiathes steal the Aracthus," he urges.
"Eugenides again?" his mother says with a laugh. "Anyone would think you're obsessed, little thief." But she complies. She's the only one who tells him the old stories; she's the only one he allows that privilege.
After the death of his brother Lyopidus, Eugenides withdrew from the world. He carried what remained of Lyopidus--nothing more than a few charred bones, wrapped in fine linen--to his father's house and laid them there in secret on the doorstep during the night. Then he departed, climbing deep into the hidden reaches of the Hephestial Mountains to sequester himself with his grief. Many years passed before he was induced to rejoin the world.
His father the woodcutter and the woodcutter's wife, in the meantime, found the bones wrapped in fine cloth and guessed at their origin. They too grieved, but for two sons, for they believed Eugenides lost to Sky's wrath as well. They prayed to Earth to honor her son and his brother in the afterlife. But Earth was nursing the wounds she suffered when she was struck with Sky's lightning, and it was many seasons before she heard the prayers of the woodcutter and his wife. When her pain had finally lessened enough, she went to them.
"Lyopidus I cannot speak for, since I am bound to give no gifts that I do not give to all men," Earth said. "You must ask my daughter who is Hephesita to intercede on his behalf."
"We understand," the woodcutter said, though his heart clenched to think his eldest but one might suffer still past his death. "But Eugenides drank from the spring of immortality; he is no longer just a man. And he is the son you gave us. Can you not ease his afterlife as you eased his life?"
"But Eugenides is not dead," said Earth in surprise. "As you say, he is immortal. He did not burn."
At this glad news, the woodcutter and his wife rejoiced, though they still anguished for Lyopidus. "But why has he not come to us, Lady?" the wife asked. "We are his mortal parents and had no way of knowing he is safe but for hearing it from you."
TALES OF PHANTASIA
Arche/Chester I started writing for sparkledyne
Thunk. The arrow connected solidly with the target, slightly off center. A second followed, than a third, but Chester still couldn't hit the bull's eye. He hissed in frustration, spit the saliva filling his mouth into the dirt, and nocked another, taking careful aim. Judge the distance, line up with the target, compensate for any wind, and--
"Your arrows are too light."
Chester fired just as Arche spoke, but his shot arced away from the target and disappeared among the trees. He swore and turned to glare up at where she sat perched on her broom, watching him with an unreadable expression.
"Since when did you know anything about archery, witch?" Chester asked irritably.
"Since I travelled all over time watching you fight with it, stupid," Arche retorted. "There's a breeze. It's catching your arrows and throwing them off course. You'd have to, I don't know, use heavier metal or something for the heads."
Chester's lips twitched in amusement. "That'd weight the arrows too much at one end. I could use denser wood, but that's not the problem."
"What is?" Arche asked, drifting nearer as she studied the arrow curiously. Chester pulled an arrow from his quiver and held it so the butt was in clear view.
"These are old, so the fletching's thinning out." He shrugged. "It's not a problem since I only use them for practice, but it is a pain."
"Oh. That makes sense." Chester looked up to see Arche twisting on her seat to look at the tail end of her broom. It was well-worn from much use. "When the bristles on this thin out, I have to get rid of them and attach new ones. They don't catch the wind right if I don't."
TALES OF SYMPHONIA
Kratos/Anna fic. Apparently titled "Grace".
It was late afternoon when Anna came to. The first thing she registered was sunshine, and the pleasant sounds of birds chittering somewhere nearby; the second was that she was ridiculously, brain-clenchingly, eat-a-whole-horse hungry.
The third she didn't notice until she attempted to sit up and felt a sharp, jolting pain in her side.
"Shit," she gasped, arms wrapping tightly around her middle. "Ow."
"I see you're awake," a sardonic voice said.
Halfway through whipping around, Anna doubled over, clutching at her wound and gasping. There was a sigh and the sound of boots crunching over the ground, someone rustling through a pack.
"Lie down," the voice said harshly. "You'll tear your wound open though your gut, and then I won't be able to do anything."
Anna felt a hand gently pushing on her shoulder, nudging her towards the ground again. She complied, blinking blearily through wet eyes up at a blur of red and purple. "Oh," she said dumbly. "You. I saw you last night."
"Yes," the person said. It sounded like a man. "You stumbled into my camp. Literally. Now move your arms and pull up your shirt."
She blinked, then her eyes shot open. "What!"
The man sighed. "I'm going to clean your wound, stitch it, and re-bandage it. Your arms and shirt are in the way."
"Oh," Anna said again. "Oh. Uh, okay." She complied, wincing as she moved her arms, and wincing more as she tugged her shirt up, holding it just below her breasts.
"Thank you," the man said. There was the sound of water slopping in a bowl, then Anna grimaced as she felt a cool rag touch her wound. Ow. "Hi," she said, in an effort to distract herself from the pain.
"...Hello," the man replied.
Birds chirping. "I'm Anna." Grimace. "Anna Irving." Grimace. "Who're you?"
"No one of import," he said.
"Aw, come on," she whined. "I've got some strange guy playing doctor on me, and I can't at least know your name?" He pulled the cloth away, and she heard it plunk into the bowl. "I bet you're some creep or something, aren't you? What are you, a mass-murder?"
It sounded as if there was a smile--or at least a smirk--in his voice when he answered her. "...I am Kratos"
Then the needle pierced her skin, and she let out an ear-rending shriek.
A bunch of drabbles from my AU where Anna dies, but Kratos manages to get away with Lloyd and raises him himself. I never really worked out the logistics of it.
With a series of painful-sounding thuds, Lloyd crashed to the ground and rolled across the dirt, coming to a halt with a number of small, sharp stones pillowed under his back. "Owww," he moaned.
"Get up."
Lloyd turned his head painfully to see Kratos advancing on him again. The boy groaned. "Dad, let's call it a rest for the night."
Kratos's face was blank, his eyes impossible to read in the twilight. But when he spoke, there was a hint of irritation in his voice. "Do you want to avenge your mother? Then get up."
With a resigned sigh, Lloyd heaved himself to his feet. He swayed, took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then brought his sword back up into the guard position. Kratos generously gave him another moment to collect himself before attacking.
It was another half-hour, in which Lloyd was beaten thoroughly multiple times, before Kratos decided they could wash up and make dinner. At least these evening chores he mostly did himself, letting his son rest. Lloyd pitched to the ground with relief before his back reminded him of the abuse it had taken earlier. He might have dozed off if it didn't hurt so much. As it was, he saw himself looking forward to an incredibly uncomfortable night's sleep. He could ask his father to heal it for him, but Kratos had this stupid-insane idea that dealing with pain made a man stronger.
Which was why he jolted in surprise when he felt the familiar coolness of a healing spell at his back. When the sensation faded, Lloyd rolled over to see his father watching him from across the fire on which he roasted a couple of small, skinny rabbits. Kratos's shoulder hitched in a noncommittal shrug and he looked back down at the cooking meal. It promised to be a boring one. Dinner hadn't been the same since Lloyd's mother had died. Nothing had.
After they ate, father and son rolled out their bedrolls and said good night. Lloyd stared up at the stars for a long time before he fell asleep.
--------
They had been on the road since he was an infant: Kratos, Lloyd, Anna, and their protozoan, Noishe. They made sheltered camps and never stayed in any one place for a day or two, a month at most. Lloyd learned early on not to share information with strangers, although it was hard for him not to trust them; likewise, he was never far from his parents' sight.
Everything Lloyd needed to know, his parents taught him. What they needed to live by, they caught and killed themselves, or else did odd jobs in the towns they passed through to earn a little money. Anna was a skilled trapper and tracker, and occasionally Kratos would hire the two of them on as bodyguards for a lone pilgrim.
Lloyd picked up quickly that they weren't just living on the road--they were living on the run. There was always an undercurrent of tension between his parents, a feeling that every walking step would turn into a dash for cover. For a few years when Lloyd was very young, they stayed out of towns as often as possible, setting up camps a day's walk away so one of his parents could stay with him while the other went to buy supplies.
Lloyd woke with a jolt. Immediately he sat up and began to dry-heave. He was stifling, as if wrapped in a prickly blanket of heat; the fire crackling to his left did not help. After a few moments the night air began to cool his perspired skin. A soft hand touched his forehead and Lloyd blinked dizzily into a pair of vivid blue eyes.
"Professor, he's awake."
"Yes, so I noticed." A second body moved into Lloyd's fuzzy, narrow line of vision as the first person moved away. He jumped; someone pressed a hot mug into his hands. A white-haired boy in blue backed away from him, an unfriendly frown on his face. Lloyd blinked at him, too. He had an uncomfortable feeling that something was missing--
"Dad!" Lloyd shot to his feet, or tried to. He was rewarded with a sharp pain in his shoulder.
A white-haired woman--the professor, Lloyd realized--put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back to the ground. "Easy," she commanded in a soothing voice. "You lost a lot of blood. I mended the wound, but it's still healing."
"Who are you?" Lloyd asked, looking around the small camp. It made his head spin. "Where am I? Where--" He swallowed. "Where's my dad?"
"I'm Raine," the woman said. "this is my brother Genis." She motioned to the boy. "and this is Colette, the Ch--"
"Just Colette, please," the blue-eyed girl cut in with a polite smile.
Raine glanced briefly at Colette before continuing. "As for your other two questions... You're in the Triet Desert, about two days out from the city. I don't know about your father, however; we found you alone."
A dull ache was settling into Lloyd's shoulder; felt a fresh twinge of nausea. "Alone..."
Sympathy creased the woman's features. "There were signs of a battle where we found you, but the only bodies were those of Desians. Your father may yet be alive."
"Colette?" The chosen looked up at Lloyd's voice. She didn't seem at all surprised by his presence. Lloyd shivered and reflexively rubbed his arms. "Why are you still up? It's kinda cold out here."
A small smile curved her lips. "I can't sleep," she replied. "What about you, Lloyd?"
Lloyd grimaced. "Same. I keep thinking about what Kvar said."
"About your father?"
"Yeah..." Lloyd blew out a breath of air in a gust and dropped to the ground beside Colette. "I wish he and Mom had explained stuff to me before all this happened. Maybe I wouldn't feel so lost now."
Colette was silent for a long moment. Lloyd began to think she wasn't going to say anything, until she spoke up in a quiet voice. "Maybe they didn't know. Everything, I mean. Maybe they didn't know all of it. Or maybe they were afraid. Or...maybe they wanted to protect you. To wait until you were old enough..." She trailed off.
"...Yeah, maybe..." Lloyd conceded. Then he leapt to his feet, suddenly full of excitement. Innocent cheer brightened his face. Colette watched him with a mixture of apprehension and intense curiosity; she still wasn't quite sure how to react to this boy's energy.
"When I was little," Lloyd began, "my mom used to sing this lullaby to me. Of course, I didn't need it when I got older, so she stopped, but... Maybe it will help you sleep?"
He looked so hopeful and earnest, Colette found herself agreeing without any conscious thought. What am I doing? I can't...
Colette hugged her knees to her chest. Lloyd thought with some perverse hope that her eyes looked a little red around the edges. Finally, she took his hand and traced her letters in his palm with a shaking finger.
"'T h e t r u t h i s,'.." she began, then stopped, looking afraid. Lloyd waited expectantly for her to go on. Finally, she continued:
"'T h e t r u t h i s , I d o n ' t r e a l l y w a n t t o b e t h e C h o s e n.'"
The thought had been lurking, hidden, in her mind for some time, and the sudden ability to share her secret wish engulfed her with an uncomfortable blend of fear and courage. She wasn't used to feeling so much, so strongly. It wasn't Chosen-like. If she felt, she might lose the strength to do what she had to do...
So used was he to her constant denial of any wants, Lloyd was taken aback. He stared at her for a moment. "R...really? You don't?"
Shoulders quivering, Colette shook her head. Eagerly, Lloyd went on. "Then don't do it!" he exclaimed, his face brightening with cheer. "We'll find another way to save the world, you and me, together! And, and we'll find a way to make it so you can eat and feel and talk and sleep again, and do all those human things--only you won't have to get rid of your wings, not if you don't want to. I, I mean, they are really pretty, and amazingly useful, so if you want to keep them, that'd be okay. We'll find my dad, and then the three of us, and Genis, and the professor, we'll all travel the world together and beat up Desians and rescue people, and, and..."
He trailed off. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and it was starting to fail on his lips as well. Because beneath his hopeful words, he know what Colette's answer would be...
She shook her head.
"I h a v e t o." Her shaking shoulders stiffened, and the smile that had fallen from Lloyd's face began to brighten Colette's. Lloyd suddenly found breathing difficult. His eyes began to burn. "P e o p l e n e e d m e. A n d I w a n t t o h e l p t h e m. T h i s i s s o m e t h i n g o n l y I c a n d o."
Kratos teaching a younger Zelos how to wield a sword. Because this is my headcanon.
There is sweat on Zelos's brow, and he wants to reach up and wipe it away, but that would leave him open. Can't be open. He grits his teeth and his face scrunches into an almost comical mask of intense concentration. The sweat slides down his skin, tickling his face and leaving it feeling unclean.
"Higher," Kratos barks in his harsh master's voice. "Higher still. Hold it steady--if your blade wavers just a fraction, you leave that much space unguarded. Stop there. Good. Now, come at me."
Zelos shifts his weight, leaning slightly forward on the ball of his right foot and using that to push off the ground. He charges towards Kratos, putting all of his weight behind the one swing of his dull practice sword. With a loud clack that echoes through the high-ceilinged room, Kratos blocks the attack.
The Seraph smirks. "You're wide open," he says, becoming a blur of color that vanishes and reappears behind Zelos, swinging the flat of his blade into the backs of the Chosen's knees. Zelos lets out a loud curse and buckles forward.
The emotion vanishes from Kratos's face once more. "Get up. Pick up your weapon. All right, again."
They have been doing the same exercise repeatedly for the past four days. Zelos is getting sick of it, and he would complain, but he's starting to feel the improvement. There is a certain loosening of tension in his sore muscles that tells him the positions are beginning to feel more natural.
Afterwards, Kratos cleans the swords while Zelos ices the bruises on the backs of his knees (there are definite perks in having a training master who can use magic). He has to spend the next day in court, and he hasn't the slightest idea how he'll manage to stand up for seven hours straight.
"...You're improving," Kratos says eventually. "Your technique is not yet refined, but you don't lack for skill."
"Of course," Zelos scoffs. "I'm the Chosen. That means I'm descended from Mithos himself. Swordsmanship is bound to run in the family."
Kratos gives him a quelling look. "Arrogance is a flaw. It will blind you towards your weaknesses, keeping you deficient."
The Chosen waves his hand dismissively; he's only thirteen, but it's a gesture he's gotten good at.
TALES OF VESPERIA
How Judith learned to fight.
"Where did you learn to use a spear, Judith?" Estelle asks during dinner one night.
They're camped in the Ilyccian forests, halfway between Heliord and Dahngrest. It's been a rare dry day, and the night sky is cool and clear. The question surprises Judith, as she blinks at Estelle in astonishment. "That certainly came out of nowhere."
Estelle's cheeks flush and she wrings her hands in her lap. Yuri watches her without any attempt to conceal his amusement. "I'm sorry. Was it impertinent of me to ask?"
"A little," Judith says, smiling. "But I don't mind. I learned from my father."
Silence meets her words; they're an unintended reminder that she is an orphan of the Great War. Judith isn't bothered by it--she's long since made her peace with her memories, even if they haven't made their peace with her. But it's clear most of the others are: Estelle and Karol wear near-identical expressions of upset, though Estelle's is half-covered by her gloved hands pressed against her mouth. Rita fiddles with her notebook, lips are pressed together in an uncomfortable frown. Raven's expression is impossible to make out, with his head tipped forward so that his untidy bangs shade his eyes.
Yuri, in tune as ever with the moods of their group, grins broadly. "He must've been something, judging by the way you move."
Judy/Raven-ish, after Raven gets Casey's bow. It occurred to me that Judith and Raven are the only two characters who have special weapons of that sort of sentimental value. One of the things I love about the pairing is the parallels between them like that, and I wanted to explore that.
They spend the night camped in the drafty ruins of Temza, and Raven can't sleep. Too many ghosts haunt this mountain to give him any rest; Yuri had just shrugged quietly when Raven volunteered for first watch, and the time's long since passed since Karol's shift should have started. Might as well let the kid get some decent shut-eye.
His hand plays over the smooth, supple wood of Casey's bow, still in immaculate condition after all these years. Yeager knew how to treat a weapon--no harm giving credit where credit's due. Its comforting weight leans against his thigh. The Great War's shadow may still loom over this place, but even if he still feels restless and uneasy in these mountains, for once he has a small measure of peace.
He must be starting to lose focus in his old age, because when he feels a hand brush his shoulder, he jumps and whips around, one hand tightening on the bow and the other flying to his knife. His heart would be pounding right now if he still had one. Then his eyes focus on whoever snuck up behind him and he dives to recover his composure. "Whoa! You startled me, darlin'!"
Judith's brow is low and tight, her pretty little mouth pulled into a frown. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you."
"Nothin' alarming about you but your beauty, as usual," Raven says, and damn that nervous thread still in his voice. He swallows it down. "What's up? Can't sleep?"
"It's my watch," Judith replies. She smoothes her skirt against her legs and sits down. "Funny, I thought there was one between mine and yours."
He shrugs. She's perceptive enough that he's sure she gets it without him having to explain--in fact, considering her own history with this desolate graveyard, she probably understands better than the others. He watches her from the corner of his eye. How she handles it with so much composure that you'd think she isn't even bothered is beyond him.
I have no idea what this was even supposed to be, but the name of the file is "ravendon.rtf".
One of Don Whitehorse's many talents included an ability to taste when a storm was coming. It started as a tingle behind his eyes, an itching in his ears, and eventually progressed to a muzzy taste on his tongue that had nothing to do with overindulgence. He could sense it now, whenever he walked on the west side of the city or sat in on Union meetings.
Crossing paths with the Blood Alliance made him feel ten years older and just damn cold. The new tavern going up with the Alliance's money reeked of small-time gang wars, but at least they had a legitimate excuse for that move; with all the little scuffles breaking out between the two guilds, no Alliance member could step foot into the Don's own tavern without a bruising when his back was turned.
But none of that really mattered at the moment compared to the pressing matter of a full quart of beer.
Now what are the odds I actually finish any of these? \8D/