#the lightning... ​the desperate - and futile - attempts to dig down and pull up... the cries of the other's name... i can't i really can't

[jackabbot]

⚡️ 9-1-1 • S3E15 || S6E10 ⚡️

[thegrantwater]

Darkness Feeds on the Saddest Souls

And you, my dear, are delectable.

inspiration from this post, which managed to pull me out of my swanqueen rut. i'm considering expanding this into a multi-chapter thing, but i wanna hear you guys' thoughts first! also posted on my ao3 :)

word count: 1169

Emma always thought she knew what darkness felt like. The crippling loneliness of an empty car in the middle of winter, melting into the backseat in an attempt to stay warm. Watching friends leave like clockwork, or being locked away for a crime she didn’t commit, or her son being stripped from her life when she was no more than a child herself. She thought the sick satisfaction she felt locking bail jumpers away and knocking them around in the process was darkness.

She was wrong.

True darkness is scarily comforting. Before Regina was surrounded, before they’d all realized what was so intensely wrong about the night sky they were under, an unsettling cool filled her body - it numbed her legs and dazed her brain, which is why it took the tendrils of destruction brushing her cheek before she noticed Regina had been pulled away.

“What’s it doing?” Robin was panicking, standing in shock.

“What darkness does...snuffing out the light.” Regina was light, and Emma was a moth to her flame.

It was almost painful for her to watch Robin’s attempt at a rescue, because this feeling in her stomach told her nothing would be able to save Regina. The fear in her eyes was crippling, like she knew that whatever happened next wouldn’t be good. Screams ripped through Regina’s throat, shaking the air more than the darkness around her. And as Emma watched, she slowly remembered the dagger in her hand, the cool leather of the handle weighing heavy in her palm. So, ever the savior, she did the only thing she could think of.

She ran. The force of the darkness was compelling, pushing her away from her mission. Still she pressed, holding the dagger above her head. A voice split through the din, a cry from Regina.

“There has to be another way!” Regina was shaking, trying her hardest to pull herself away from the darkness around her. Tears streamed down her face, all hope gone from her eyes.

“There isn’t!” Emma shouted, her grip a vice on the dagger. “You’ve worked too hard to have your happiness destroyed!” Her parents were screaming behind her, begging her not to do this. She turned back to them, because they’ve gotten the darkness out of her before and they can do it again, and the only thing she can do right now is fight to save Regina. She turned back to the brunette, tears flowing freely and a tremble in her hand, but she was ready. Henry would be okay without her, he was for how many years before he tracked her down, and Regina would be okay. She reached forward for the last time, resigned to her fate as the tendrils of black moved towards her. Regina’s eyes were wide, fear and confusion clear in them as her mouth opened in a silent scream.

“I can’t let you do this, Swan.”

The dagger fell as Emma was pulled away from the cloud, leather clad arms wrapped around her stomach. She scrambled against Killian’s grip, kicking and screaming for him to let her go as Regina was once again covered by the darkness. There was another set of hands on them, fighting to let Emma go, and she realized it was Robin when the two men started shouting at each other. But Killian was determined, much like Emma, but for paradoxical reasons. He wanted to save Emma; but if she were honest with herself, she’d forgotten he was there.

Nails scratched at his hands as she struggled, digging deep and burning with each swipe. Her magic was running wild, snapping left and right in a futile attempt to break free. And all the while Regina was slowly consumed, her form disappearing behind a cloud of dark. The cloud condensed, a mass of pure night, and as it went back into the sky Emma finally managed to escape Killian’s hold. She bolted forward, tripping on her feet as she stumbled to the empty spot where Regina Mills once stood. In her place was only the dagger, spinning in the frenzy and clattering to the ground. Emma fell to the concrete, and she felt her jeans tear at the knees as she reached forward, grabbing the dagger. The previously smooth metal was now tainted, engraved with the name of the one person who only deserved to have her name written on paperwork, or uttered softly between gentle stolen kisses in the back of the diner.

The scream that broke from Emma’s throat was shattering, leaving everyone to listen as her world began to collapse in on itself. She clutched the dagger to her chest, whispering her prayers to bring Regina back. But God stopped answering her hopeless calls many years ago.

“Regina! Where is she, where’s she gone?” Robin was desolate, standing speechless behind her. Emma fell forward, the dagger still in her arms as she wept. Over and over she muttered to herself, “Dark One, I summon thee.” She knew no one would come, no one would be there to tell her she was an idiot or assuage her guilt.

“She’s gone, mate.” The pirate’s voice rang in her ears, and Emma turned, facing the people behind her. A cold had settled into her eyes as she stood, glaring at the man before her.

“You did this,” She breathed. “Why wouldn’t you let me save her?” She moved at lightning speed, and David was on her the moment she put the dagger to Hook’s throat, struggling to move her away. “She would still be here if it wasn’t for you! I was supposed to protect her! Why wouldn’t you let me save her?” She screamed, her venom biting at his skin. The dagger tilted forward, and Killian let out a noise of shock as it dug into his neck. His hand moved to her wrist, his grip so tight she felt his fingerprints on her bones.

“I was only trying to protect you Emma!” He defended, shouting back at the blonde. He squeezed again, and the dagger fell just as David pulled her away. Her back hit his chest and the pair fell to the ground as Emma once again sobbed.

“What happened? Where’s my mom?” Emma heard Henry run up to the group as Killian wiped the blood from his neck. David still had a grip on Emma, but one of his hands had moved to her hair, running it over her head as he mumbled words of remorse into her ear. The conversation around her was dull, like she was hearing it from the bottom of a pool - all she heard clearly were Regina’s fractured cries as she fought against the darkness. She was just there, and now she was gone.

As her vision blurred in and out of focus, the only thing she could see was the dagger, sparkling under the streetlights. Regina’s name taunted her, and reminded her of the fact she so desperately wished to deny.

Emma had lost. And Regina was gone.

[icy-warden]

What If

What if Zevran showed how capable he is when he's serious about the job well done (and didn’t look for a way to perish)?

Storytelling time with a bit of spice (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Read on AO3

They said he was bad at planning. But this plan went exactly as he thought it would. 

Well, almost exactly. 

If he put his money on everything being predictable, he’d lose, no doubt. But he hasn’t totally fucked up so far. One can never be sure what to expect when it comes to mages. Two mages, to be precise and one that can turn into a giant spider. He didn't know they could do that, like, for real.

It doesn’t really matter, as he has a few aces up his sleeve. His own apostate is busy with attacking the warriors of the wardens’ party, one a hornless qunari with a greatsword, second a human with shield and sword. Mismatched armors of poor quality do little when they’re overwhelmed by sheer numbers of attacks incoming from different places. 

His archers are hidden well and do a good job with crippling the qunari, who goes down with a roar, but not before he fatally wounds two of his men. The human warrior holds on a little longer, only because his companion shields him with well aimed arrows. 

She’s good, he thinks, as he stealthily darts to her spot. Using trees and bushes to his advantage, the terrain is difficult to defend in when one is ambushed. He glances over his shoulder when a crackle of lightning whizzes past him, catching his crew-woman, her scream short but blood curdling. He briefly watches her shaking wildly before her body thuds onto the ground like a puppet with cut strings, clothes sizzling. Dead. 

His nose wrinkles at the smell of burnt skin, but he doesn’t spare her more than a glance as he moves forward. Shouts and battle noise pierce the calm forest and he’s closer to the redhead, slowing his steps and sticking low to the ground when he gets near, unsheathing the poisoned dagger on his back. One scratch and it’ll be over, the poison very potent. He’d know, he brewed it himself. Another yells and he doesn't look back this time, even with the gust of cold wind at his back. The other mage must have used another spell. 

He holds his eyes on the woman who somehow noticed him. Her face’s sickly white and she favours her left leg when she swings his way, the bow almost colliding with his throat.

Spotted and attacked, he swings to the left aiming straight for her neck. She dodges, barely, and the tip of the bow crashes with his unprotected arm, slowing him down for a second. Swiftly, he backs away, changing the dagger to another hand and just in time - the woman hurls the bow at him. Using the distraction she pushes forward, while he’s busy with the weapon thrown at him. A twist of his wrist and he catches her dagger pointed at his ribs with his own blade.

With the force behind the strike she would pierce his leather armor, though the momentum makes her stumble closer to him. Only now he notices that her right side is covered in dried crimson, wide slash hastily covered with stained cloth. And yes, there it is, a corpse of a man partly hidden in the bushes, one he didn’t see earlier. Did a number on her before Zevran got to her, but it didn’t make her any less fierce. 

She corrects her stance quickly, one more dagger appearing in her hands. Icy blue eyes hard, lips pulled in a sneer, she attacks, refusing to go down easily. He can respect that, avoiding blows and slashes, pushing on when she steps back, only to kick at his knee. His eyes widen when it folds under him, the sickening pull in his gut telling him he fucked up royally. 

In a blink she’s on him. 

But he rolls away, gathering fist of dirt that he throws at her face. She shifts away, closing her eyes with a gasp, but her dagger catches him on his ear and cheek, a cold slice of steel morphing into a sticky warmth of blood. The pain is minimum and he ignores it, using the distraction and jumping at her, poisoned blade meeting its target. She cries out when it sticks in the meat of her tight, wavering on her feet as he jumps back, pommel in hand. He watches her trying to go after him, but the poison’s already working - her fingers slacken and her weapons clatter to the ground. Blue eyes hold his own when she falls as well, weak hands searching for something around her belt but it’s too late. Quickened short breaths stop after a few more seconds and he sees the light in her gaze dull in death. 

He exhales, the grip on his weapon tightening. Two more to go, though his crew should be already done with them. But as he turns to survey the battlefield, he’s met with two of his men turned into ice statues. The elven mage still stands somehow, looking like he’s one leg in his grave, but still defiant. Zevran looks up when a loud flutter of wings sounds above him, a crow flying away with a bolt sticking somewhere under the feathers. 

He doesn’t bother with it, bending down for the dead woman’s bow, nocking an arrow from the spilled bundle. The muscles in his back pull uncomfortably, arms trembling a little with the effort when Zevran aims at the last mage. 

It hits its target clearly. 

The man stumbles with the force, a short scream caught between a shout of rage and pain. He turns with a struggle, and from the distance he can see the pure hatred on his face. The arrow went through his back, pointed end shiny with blood of his heart. He opens his mouth, lips stained with crimson, pinkish light between his trembling hands and dread licks Zevran’s spine. The mage’s eyes seem to glow unnaturally for a moment before his spell sputters and his body thuds to the ground. 

Coughing wetly, drowning in red until he stills. 

Slowly, he gets closer to the curled body when he’s sure it won’t be moving anymore, the chatter of the rest of his men that are still alive muted when he looks at the fallen mage. 

Cuts littering his skin, tip of his long ear gone in a bloody wound, long black hair tangled around pale face. Unseeing amber eyes half lidded, and he crouches down near him, reaching to brush his fingers on his neck. 

To check, he tells himself. 

A pity, really. Wouldn't mind getting closer to this one when he was still alive, oddly beautiful in his death. He could go with another plan, more discreet. Meet them all in a tavern, start chatting around drinks, spend the night with one of them. Seduce and kill after the fun. But what’s done is done. He shouldn’t be so sentimental about a stranger he just killed.

The skin under his touch is still warm but the heartbeat is gone. Zevran closes his eyes with a murmur under his breath and almost falls on his butt when something yanks at his wrist. 

“You’re forgetting about something,” the iron grip on his arm pulls him forward, slurred words falling from the bloodied lips of a man that’s dead. There’s a noise in his head, louder with every thump of his heart as black-golden eyes stare through him when he trashes in the hold, desperate to get away. 

The small blade he gets from his boot stills with rasped “Zevran,” the mage’s voice laced with something other. Red mist coils around him and-

/////

Vergil winces slightly when Zevran’s chin digs into his chest. 

“‘course you’d say that.” He puffs his cheeks in a futile attempt of blowing a strand of golden hair from his face. Vergil reaches to tuck it away, fingers raking through his hair and Zevran’s eyes close for a moment, a content smile curling his lips. 

Vergil’s low chuckle shakes him a little and one eye peers at him. “It’s only fair to unleash last surprise on my killer. But,” he runs his hand over the long hair of his lover sprawled on top of his naked body, squeezing briefly at his nape, stopping between his shoulder blades. “Thank you for not spilling my guts. I appreciate it, really.” 

Zevran snorts a laugh at Vergil’s dry tone. “You wanted to know how I’d do the contract properly. I don’t play with targets,” he scrunches up his nose, “usually. And it’s not like I’ve met many mages who could do such a trick. Before.” 

Vergil hums, “Any idea of assassins being after us hadn't even crossed my mind at the time. Leliana must’ve had such great fun with bunch of blissfully unaware amateurs.”

“You admit it.” Zevran shifts, dragging his body up until he can brush his mouth under his jaw. He tilts his head back, willingly exposing his throat to the gentle assault of hot, short kisses. 

“Yes.”

The weight of Zevran’s body over him isn’t constricting, not with soft sheets and a mattress under him. Vergil runs his hands over his back, hooking one leg over his hip. He digs his fingers on the small of his back when Zevran sucks at the skin over his pulse point. He arches up with a hiss, twisting his hand in Zevran’s hair, pulling slightly when he doesn’t let go immediately. 

The sound of breathy “Ah” that escapes Zevran’s lips when he finally leans back goes straight to his groin. He smirks knowingly, rolling his hips, trapped between Vergil’s thighs.

“Again so fast?” He teases as they rock together, skin warm and sticky after last time. “It’s my narrative skill, isn’t it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Sit up,” he murmurs between wet pecks to his lips. They rearrange their position, Vergil leaning back on a stack of pillows as he sits on the bed with loosely crossed legs, reaching for Zevran’s waist as he straddles his lap. 

“Tell me about tavern seduction plan.”

Zevran laughs with head fallen back and he nuzzles his chest, feeling the vibration of his amusement under his cheek. Tilts his head into the hold of hands on his jaw, fingers brushing the length of his ear. Gold eyes peer at him curiously as he lets his eyelids fall close under the carres on his eartip. A weak spot that’s thoughtfully exploited with a feather light touch that makes him shudder. Vergil tightens his hold on Zevran’s back as he teasingly grinds on him. 

“Lure you to some dark corner?” He sighs when Vergil’s palm closes over his cock, rubbing slowly. “Can’t imagine it being so hard,” he purrs around a smirk that twists into a soft moan upon goading strokes.

“Work on your insults better.” There’s a smile in Vergil’s voice and he goes easily up and down as Vergil guides him where he wants to. Zevran’s open in voicing his pleasure, sinking down on him.

They both indulge in shared pleasure, their bodies working unhurriedly towards blissful finish. Vergil’s usual silence shattered by soft pants leaving his mouth in between lazy kisses. “How did it go? Dangerous and exciting,” he whispers slightly out of breath, straight into Zevran’s ear. Feeling the muscles under his hands shiver.

“And beautiful.”

“Well thank you.” 

Gasped laugh when he pushes up, raking blunt nails along the arch of tattooed back, “Shameless.”

“You are.”

Zevran shifts and Vergil with him, unfolding his legs and Zevran leans back, hands splayed on his thighs as he chases his pleasure, Vergil watching him greedily. Prolonging his own, the tightening in his gut as he can see him being close. He doesn’t stop him.

/////

Gentle chime of ice charms by the window fills the silence. Vergil sits on the floor, clothes loose and comfortable in the late afternoon, refreshed after a quick bath. Hair pinned up, so he avoids overheating. Again. The weather’s unmerciful here, the seaside helping little. His body really isn’t made to endure so much sun without extra cover and cooling balms.

Open notebook, few small vials of colorful liquids, strings of leather and clear gems are in an easy reach. Focused on pouring bits of his magic into the crystals, he doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings until there’s a presence at his side. 

Zevran hands him a glass and he wordlessly takes a sip, humming at the taste of drink. Sweet with a hint of alcohol, pieces of yellowish fruit swimming in gold. He lets the cold seep into his hand, frost climbing the glass and tastes the drink again. Better. 

“Mine too?” Zevran smiles. He forgo a shirt, loose pants clinging to his hips. 

Vergil gives him his own glass, trading it for the one in Zevran’s palm and repeats the process. Lifting a brow when he drinks, alcohol stronger in this one. He prefers the watered down one.

“Give it back.” 

Zevran’s grin widens, “Too much? I can trade for one magic touch. ”

Cold hand brushes his forearm and Zevran almost spills his drink as he jerks, a gasp turned yelp when he stills him with a well aimed hold on his wrist, the squirm, as he wants to run away from the chill. He recognizes a few colorful words that Zevran mumbles under his breath, strands of hair that escaped his bun sticking to his temple.

A hint of teeth in his smile when he asks, “Better? Now, my glass.”

Zevran rolls his eyes and pushes it towards him, leaning back on the edge of bed. Swallowing a mouthful of his drink, lazily watching Vergil work for a moment. He closes his eyes with a content sigh. “Still want to hear about second option?”

“Tavern?” Vergil looks up from the crystal, gently putting it down as he shifts. Resting arm over bent knee, fingers loosely holding the glass.

“I’d offer you a drink. Given you wouldn’t be suspicious.” Of a foreigner, goes unsaid.

“More like intrigued. What you’re wearing?” Molten gold peers at him, both relaxed and sharp.

“Same armor as we first met.”

“Leather skirt.”

Zevran tilts his head, smirk brightening his face at the sound of Vergil’s voice. “Easiest mark ever. Who’d have thought you’re so reckless?”

Vergil shrugs as he drinks. “It was a weird time and handsome strangers buying me drinks were scarce.”

“Going so willingly.” Zevran says with a tsk. “But, if I had a good time, I’d make it quick. No spilling guts as well.” 

“During or after?” 

“Mhmm... shortly after, most likely. Attention’s lowest.”

Vergil hums, holding his gaze as he licks his lips. Chasing the taste of the drink's sweetness. “I’d deserve it. Still would do it. Hadn’t stopped me before.” 

The warmth of Zevran’s laugh washes over him. Relaxing.

“No it hadn’t. How long was it? Three weeks?”

“Two and you weren’t as subtle as you thought.”

Zevran splays a hand over his chest, “Oh shame on me for seducing a fair man. I’ve heard enough of it from Alistair.”

Vergil snorts, “I know, I’ve been there. Heard my share as well.” He stares at the liquid in his glass before he gulps everything in one go, head tilted back. “Wasn’t so bad.”

They’re silent for a while, the light chime of the charms echoing along the muted crash of waves.

“Another?” Zevran asks, reaching for Vergil’s glass as he gets up. He closes his fingers over his when he passes the glass, holding on for a moment.

“Yes.”

[storythymee]

Surrounded (OC-Anatol)

Here it is! My first story that includes my new OC, Anatol, with a brief mention of Vanya. It’s going to be a lot of fun expanding their world and writing about it, so I hope you enjoy this little whump! 

Also, check out my earlier post with a drawing I did of Anatol! I’m almost done with Vanya so that should be posted soon.

________________________________________________________________

The way the man reclined in the plush velvet of the wingback chair fed the choler simmering in Anatol's gut. What immense pleasure it would bring him if he could race forward and knock that cheeky grin off of his face, but the two burly men beside him with their grubby hands restraining his arms removed that possibility. In its place, Anatol shot a weighted glare while baring his teeth and jerked in the immobilizing grip. His hostility earned him a swift slap against his cheek by a third man who had stood on the sidelines.

"Now, now, Ana, reign in your temper," the man lifted his hand to eye his nails, immaculate and sharp, "You know how much I don’t like disobedience."

"Fuck you," the venom dripping from Anatol was viscous and so, so sweet. The thug to his right yanked him back by the hair and his rotten laugh washed over Anatol's pained expression, but Anatol’s focus remained on their leader in the chair who clicked his tongue. Whatever he signaled to his men left Anatol crumpled on the ground grasping his side tightly. A thug laughed and gifted him another kick to his ribs before stepping back.

By the time Anatol pushed himself to his hands and knees and looked up, he found himself surrounded by at least five different men. Behind the line of brute muscle, their leader smiled down at him from his velvet throne. With his chin resting on his fist, he cocked his head condescendingly and his airy laugh echoed around the room.

"My patience has worn thin, Ana-"

"Don't call me that-"

"-and our beloved Vanya continues to be… difficult. I was mistaken in thinking that he would jump at the chance to save you. You must mean less to him than I originally perceived… "

Anatol's responding growl pulled at the corners of the man's smile. It stretched gruesomely across his face and sent the barest of shivers up Anatol's spine.

"Even so, maybe with an added incentive… maybe he'll show his face."

Two men stepped forward, one cracking his knuckles as the other rolling his shoulders. Anatol, as quick as he could, scrambled to his feet and took a step back. When one of the men leapt forward, their leader called out to Anatol.

"Smile for the camera, Ana!"

Anatol ducked and dodged to the side as the thug's fist blew passed where his head just was. Using his momentum, Anatol dug his elbow into the thug’s stomach. They stuttered back with a choked grunt and Anatol shifted his focus to the other thug. He dodged the first punch but stumbled over his own feet when a heavy boot knocked him back. The man was relentless, barely giving Anatol time to move out of the way from another jab to his chest. They ended up grappling against each other, but the thug managed to overcome Anatol and proceeded to push him back up against the wall and press his forearm against his throat.

The pressure was heavy and it squeezed the air from Anatol's lungs until they burned. Anatol's fingers clawed at the skin of the thug's arm, leaving bright scratches and numerous bubbles of blood. The thug only pushed tighter against his throat and shoved his face closer. There was a cruel sneer that stretched his cracked lips and revealed his yellowed teeth, and Anatol was sure he would never forget the devious cruelty that swam deep within those dark eyes.But Anatol refused to let himself succumb here.

This wasn't where his story ended, beneath the wrath of a mindless heathen. No, Anatol had plans, plans to tear each and every limb off of the man ensconced within that velvet chair. Anatol would give back every ounce of pain inflicted on him and then some. And when he returned to Vanya, head high and eyes ablaze, Anatol would prove to all who looked that he wasn't some weak lowlife among their ruinous city. Anatol would be seen for what he really was, a fighter worthy of joining Vanya’s ranks.

Anatol would meet Vanya's eyes, those cold, murky depths that held so much power and knowledge, and they would flash with warmth to match the rare smile pulling at his lips. Vanya would finally understand that Anatol, as much as he wanted to remain at Vanya's side, did not need his protection.

It was with a swift jab of his knee between the thug's legs that Anatol was released from the choke hold. The thug grabbed himself and collapsed to his knees with a tight groan. Anatol took a moment to touch his aching throat and cough as he worked to steady his breathing. When he glanced up, he saw the first thug being pulled up onto his feet by one of the bordering thugs and two more from the sidelines came to join.

Soon, they all turned their undivided attention onto Anatol and the next few minutes were filled with fast punches and dirty tricks. Anatol struggled to hold his own. One thug would fake a swing only for another to knock Anatol around like a rag doll. Each landed hit left his gasping, desperately trying to hold back cries as the bones beneath his muscles creaked dangerously at each impact. Anatol did his best, dodging when he could and landing a few enraged hits of his own, but one against four did not form the most encouraging odds.

Anatol was soon tripped up, one thug grabbing his arm and pulling him forward while another elbowed him in the lower back. Anatol involuntarily arched his back on a gasp and his knees gave out beneath him. There was no time to catch his breath as one of the men slammed his boot down on his back, forcing Anatol to sprawl out on the floor. Anatol’s futile attempts to curl up on himself to protect his body failed miserably and a multitude of harsh kicks met his sides.

His strength was sapped the moment a resounding crack reverberated throughout the room. A cry was torn from his throat as a burst of pain bloomed from his side. Another kick drew a bloodied cough from his lips. A final kick to the back Anatol's head whitened his vision.

He wasn't sure what happened between that kick and where he was now. Thugs crowded around him with one of their hands clawing through his hair and yanking his head back while another dragged him up on his knees. Anatol's haggard breathing filling his ears but it felt like he couldn't bring any air to his lungs. He weakly tried to jerk out of the numerous grips holding onto his body, but with the combination of limited strength and horrid pain, it was all in vain.

Before him, the leader came walking over, a camcorder in hand. The red light blinked mockingly and the lenses flashed underneath the hazy fluorescent lighting. The man stopped just before reaching him and looked over the device to gaze at Anatol.

"My, my, you sure got some fight left in you," he pushed the camera closer, "don't think for a second, Vanya, that I won't knock that pretty little light out of his eyes."

Anatol tried to pull away again, but the thug holding his hair sent a blunt fist into his cheek and yanked his head further back. Anatol tried to blink the focus back into his eyes. He looked at the lens, his own gruesome reflection fish-eyed back at him, and tried to picture Vanya. All that confidence, that unwavering pride, that Anatol felt earlier had been washed away.

"Van-"

"Ana does not have long. Do not keep me waiting."

The leader pulled back and slammed his finger down on the recorder button. The red light disappeared and the camera shutter closed. He passed the camera over to one of his men with a sharp order to send the recording out immediately before leaning over to look at Anatol. His eyes skimmed the blossoming bruises painting his skin with a cheery smile.

"Now, Ana, have you learned your lesson?" His finger pressed into Anatol's scarred cheek, digging a nail in before tracing along the veined scars until he reached the collar of his ruined shirt. The man hummed, almost like he was counting the old currents of electricity that traveled through Anatol's body years ago.

"I can see why he likes you… a survivor of lightning." He dug his nail in again and dragged it across the raised scars until he reached the unmarred skin on the other side of his neck. "Anyone would be drawn to that… spark," he laughed at his own joke, "but every light dies, Ana. It's simply a matter of when."

He steps back and the thugs holding Anatol toss him to the ground. Anatol is not quick enough to catch himself so he chokes out a cry as he lands. He breathes heavily into the floor and listens to the men step around him. The leader is the last to back off, but before his does, he uses the toe of his boot to hook under Anatol's chin and makes him look up.

"You'll regret this," the threat is clear despite the evident shake to Anatol's voice. The leader stares at him, his face vacant of any reaction, and pulls back. Then a sly smile spreads across his face.

"We'll see, Ana."