Writing Warm Up (Patreon)

I've had this very random and unclear idea of a story in my mind for a while now, as the result of... several other random and unclear ideas (hence the random tag) jksdhfjksf and decided to use it as a fun little warm up before I took on the other writing I plan on starting tonight! 

Anyway, the other day my braincell ended up giving shape to three (still nameless) side characters and one (also nameless) possible RO for said future COG, which I'll probably only dabble in every now and then so as to not get burn out with working on AOS or A6, as my adhd brain screams at the mere thought of focusing on only one thing at a time unless I'm hyperfocusing to get shit done 😔 so I can and definitely will share more about it as it takes shape, but AOS is still my priority so....... don't expect much on this baby for now, my day is sadly only 24 hours long and way I'm too old to pull an all-nighter.

This is a bit of the backstory on one of said side characters to the story, and I just wanted to share with you all because I ended up quite liking how this turned out!

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Darkness. Blissful, ethereal, silent.

The young man can scarcely believe the peace he feels, a quietude in the world around him, in his thoughts, that he hadn’t experienced in at least… a decade? He’s not sure anymore. The surgical way he used to keep track of time on the back of his mind suddenly gone, vanishing along with the piercing scream that haunted him when he…

When he died.

Yes, he’s dead. He should be. The memory stings fresh in his mind, the disturbingly accurate blast that pierced his chest, straight through his heart. It hadn’t even hurt, if he’s being honest.

Maybe it was the thrill of battle, maybe it was the lifelong acceptance of his early doom that made it not hurt as much as he thought it would. He’d already gotten his revenge, and he never expected to make it to his thirties regardless of it all, not with the path he’d chosen for himself, so his death didn’t come as a surprise.

The regret he felt when he’d heard that scream, on the other hand… that came as a surprise.

That long curtain of blond hair that had flashed in front of him. The bright, green eyes, wide and marred with tears -- were they her tears or his? Who knows.

All he knows is he’d never seen fear in them. They’d been through thick and thin, fought entire cities all by themselves, overthrew governments, danced in the jaws of death countless times, and she’d never been afraid. If anything, she thrived on it, just like he did. The thrill of the chase, the heat of battle, not knowing if that would be the last time they laid waste to their enemies; it brought a smile to their faces. Some even said that’s what made them such a good, albeit terrifying, pair.

The clash of swords, grunts and blood-curdling screams they elicited on the battlefields are like a melody to his life. A melody that had always made him think of her, with a wide smile twisting her plump lips and eyes bright with joy.

Never fear.

Except for the last time.

He remembers her hands reaching out to him, how his blood stained her unblemished skin, how it tainted her clothes red. Her desperate pleas as he called out his name… and the brief smile she cracked when he made a joke about the situation, trying to make her smile as he always did.

And the scream. The scream and the tears and the pain that cut through his very soul when he could no longer hold on to life, when he could no longer hold her hand, when his eyes shut closed for what should be the last time.

He remembers her, of course he does -- how could he ever forget her? And yet, her name eludes him.

What was her name? In fact, what was his name?

The pleasant silence that cradled him before is now gone. A crushing wave of questions reverberates in his head: for how long has he been dead? What is his name? Has she forgotten him already? If he’s dead, why is he still capable of rational thought?

Is he even still dead?

Asking that is like opening the floodgates around him. The darkness isn’t peaceful anymore, sharp, piercing, familiar, sounds in his ears force him to move, his hands grabbing his own head as he struggles to wake up from this nightmare.

Opening his eyes isn’t nearly as easy as moving his arms had been. It feels like trying to break through ice when you’re underwater; pointless and useless.

But the thirteenth Abaddon of the Fortuna had never quit before in his life, and he isn’t about to start now.

With a deafening scream that barely felt as if it’d come from his own mouth, he opens his eyes and sits up straight, hands still clutching his head as if his life depended on it.

His vision is still slightly blurred, so he blinks a few times, adjusting his eyes to the bright lights around him while the noise in his ears dies down at long last. Yet when the noise dies, he is once again plagued by silence.

That’s when he realizes: his heart is not beating.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think he’s still dead and this is Gehenna or whatever they call it now, but everything feels too real. The cold metal table under him, the too clean lab smell around him… he’s alive.

Or rather, he’s living on borrowed time.

Strands of reddish hair fall over his eyes, and by the soft tickling on the back of his neck he can tell his hair had grown a bit. As he looks at the mirror in front of him, though, he can’t see any other significant changes on his body. He couldn't have been dead for more than a few weeks.

His pants are clean, unlike the ones he was wearing when he died. His shirt is gone, and his skin lost the sun-kissed glow he’d gotten from spending all his time outside -- not that he ever really had a tan, but still, he’s paler than before. As is his hair, that looks almost orange under this light.

On the other hand, his blue eyes are brighter, too bright, like stars in the night sky… though unlike the guidance they bring, he brings only chaos and destruction.

He can still feel the thrum of his powers in his body, the way the air calls to him, how it seems to almost wrap itself around him, welcoming him back from the dead -- he shouldn’t be able to sense it this well, not without his aura. Maybe dying had bent the rules?

Other than that, his body still looks the same; lean, with muscles honed by years of battle, hardly any visible scars thanks to… her.

With the exception of the new one on his chest. Right over his heart, he’s sure it’s mirrored on his back. The scar is large, the skin covering it is still pink-ish, and it’s a loud reminder of his death.

He hates it. All of it.

This isn’t who he is, this is some worthless copy and it pisses him off.

It enrages him so much that he considers ending it all again, before she could see him like this, before he could hurt her again with his inevitable death. However, the minute he does, it’s as if soft, commanding tendrils tug at the place where his heart once was, and he knows. He knows even if he tried, he can’t end it.

Because the curse needs him. Because his job isn’t over.

Because he is an Immortal.

A joyless chuckle escapes him when he hears the door open, and the voice of a man he knows far too well for his own liking echoes around the room.

“How very kind of you to join us again, Knight. And here I was, thinking I’d have to throw a bucket of water on your head to get you to wake up.”

“And here I was, thinking I’d gotten rid of you once I died, Scurra.”

“Oh, please. We both know you’d miss me terribly,” the man laughs, throwing a white shirt his way. “Now, how would you like to raise some hell now that you’re back in the world of the living?”