#[[Does the Blade Weep ║ Silver Storm

[kazeofthemagun]

[Parenting 101, Lord Aurinko and Silver Storm edition]

@shiroi---kumo

[petrichorium]

it’s a whisper that rushes through the guards as they lead you through the twisting corridors of the castle’s dark, claustrophobic escape routes—a frantic, hushed whisper, full of incredulous tones and wild-eyed glances at her majesty whose side you never leave, whose hand you never let go of.

gojo satoru, it hisses, and it makes your blood run cold.

the leader wears a blindfold, they say—to cover up his eyes, that distinctive blue, marking the gojo family lineage and last seen on the former crown prince, only child of a king who passed of a fever mere months before his son’s assassination. or so the whisper says, by the dim light of the torches, bouncing off the low ceilings of the corridors, spilling from the mouths of the very people sworn to protect you until their last breath.

your queen is aging, greying at the temples, wrinkling at the eyes; her hearing has been going for years yet the name rings for her clearly enough that her manicured fingers tighten their grip on yours. it surely would, for it belongs to her long-deceased nephew—not by blood, no, she has married into the family, princess of a neighboring kingdom.

your memory conjures up boyish laughter, long fingers tugging on your hair, striking blue eyes soft with first love. you dare not measure it against the terrifying description painted for you of their commander—brutal, enormous, swift, cutting down swathes of men with ease. inhuman, say the whispers, a beast, a monster.

the sounds of battle echo through the claustrophobic tunnels—the clanging of metal, the dying cries of men. behind you, two of your companions weep, clutching onto each other and barely keeping pace. this corridor will open up near the entrance to another, in your favorite library, and from there will be the final stretch beyond the walls. steeds await, one for each courtier and most of the guards. you will escape to the east, the queen’s homeland, where her family is sure to take you in.

you do not get that far.

there are men waiting beyond the bookshelf. too many; they swarm around you like wolves to a downed doe, so dense and armed, push past into the corridors to surround you. and their leader stands at their front—towering over even the tallest of men and holding himself high, blood streaking his tunic and his silver hair, eyes covered with a black cloth.

a war god sent to punish, to consume, to destroy, say the whispers—the ones in the back of your head. the guards are silent.

the queen lets go of your hand for the first time since the captain of the guard had stormed into her room and told you all to flee. she orders her men to stand down; outnumbered as they are, it will be little more than a bloodbath. regally, she approaches, head held high, much to the amusement of the brute before her—his mouth stretches wide and he lifts a wicked sword, arm so long that he needn’t even step forward for the point to press beneath her chin.

“hello, auntie,” he says, grin flashing teeth sharp as the blade he points at your queen. “i hope you didn’t plan to run off before my coronation. we wouldn’t want to miss the festivities, now, would we?”

and you still want to disbelieve, yet with his free hand he reaches up, hooks his thumb beneath the cloth, and reveals a single brilliant blue eye—a gojo eye, the color of the sky and the sea, sign of the gods’ blessing, the physical marker of one born to rule. cold as steel and directed not at the queen but at you, stealing the breath from your lungs with the manic light within.

“not when everything i’ve wanted for so long is finally in reach.”

usurper!gojo masterlist

[theothermaidoftarth]

Title: Song for Evermore

Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x Baela Targaryen 

Rating: M (a light M; it’s mostly T, except for a few paragraphs of non-explicit sexual content)

Summary: Daeron Targaryen’s hopes and dreams always came back to belonging. It had been so ever since he became a ward of Oldtown at five, at an earlier age than most. He finds a kindred spirit in an unexpected place: Lady Baela, the daughter of his grandfather’s bitter rival, Daemon Targaryen.

Word count: 47,559

Multi-chapter (essentially a one-shot split into six parts)

Status: Complete

Excerpt below:

“You sing to your dragon?”   

“Yes, I — yes.” Daeron thought he was alone, save the dragons and the last vestiges of his song, echoing back to him. She startled him. His eyes took her in, from boots to breeches and studded jack. Lady Baela and her grandmother had arrived too late yesterday eve to be presented to the court; they had met with the queen and her father, the Lord Hand privately before retiring to their allotted chambers. Baela had been shaped as if by a fine hand; spare, too lean, most would say, with the barest hint of womanly curves. Her hair was pulled back in a thick braid, the silver curls even brighter against her rich bronze skin. Her mouth, generous and lush, curved in a faint smile. Her purple eyes, large, doe-like and beguiling, at odds with the intensity of her expression which he saw as she drew nearer curiously; her gaze was as keen as a blade.

He thought she was as surprised to come upon him in the Dragonpit as he was her, though she hid it slightly better. Surprise was too weak a word. Even as he rose, feet firmly underneath him, he felt unsteady, as if he were on the deck of a ship embroiled in a storm. Fitting when she has both Baratheon and Velaryon blood. How his thoughts run from him, even more than usual. He should bow. He had forgotten to, but neither had she curtsied. Likely it was too late now. He had a thought she would laugh if he did, Daemon’s eldest daughter. Of what he had heard of the man, the uncle he’d never met, it seemed likely. She’d laugh for he would seem like a dog slow to remember an old trick. He might like to see her laugh, he thought hazily. Better that than this halfway state, midway between impassive and expressive.

“Is she the only she-dragon you will sing to?”

“You, my lady?” Daeron didn’t recognise his voice, a low husky murmur. He swallowed against a dry mouth. “You wish me to sing to…”

Her eyes were full of laughter as she said, “Moondancer.” Hot blood rushed to his face, though her amusement was not mocking. Her dragon, she meant her dragon. “Although…” her head canted to the side, “I would not say no to a song, Prince Daeron.”

At last he dusted off his wits. “And what of yours? Your voice, I mean.”

"It would make her weep.”

He gave a little laugh. She surprised him and that cleared his head some. No other lady he knew would ever admit such a fault, especially not so blithely. “So bad as that?”

She cast a fond eye over her dragon, green with pearl tipped wings and crouching stiffly as if expecting a fight. “Certes it wouldn’t settle her, see her thus, like—“ she nodded to the blue dragon behind him, lolling upon the floor contently; were she a pup, she may have rolled onto her back, legs all in the air.

“Tessarion,” Daeron offered with a warm smile, patting his dragon’s flank. Despite her blithe mien, Baela’s stance was almost too casual; something had her on edge. Oddly enough he did not think it was him. Just as oddly the same was true in reverse. She could have been any young woman and he any young man, not two scions of a family split in two. “Any particular requests?”

“If I said The Bear and the Maiden Fair…”

“I’d say you want me sent to the Wall for debauching a lady of the blood.”

“As if you were the bear himself to lick honey from my hair.” The silence was charged with something hot, heavy, which made his breathing hitch. Mayhap she felt it too for her voice was soft, a bare whisper. “You’d be singing a song.”

“And after? How do you know what I would or wouldn’t lick?”

Hot embarrassment at speaking such bold words filled him — Mother have mercy, he had only just met her — but then she took one step towards him, then another, and another. Something fiery stirred low in his belly as she looked him over from head to toe, her brow raised. Then her mouth dimpled in a cheeky half-smile. “My grandmother used to warn me away from the singers who’d come to call at High Tide. Seems she was right to.” Singer. Did she think him such? In truth he was a bit of everything. A bit of nothing. He felt like something under her gaze, like he could be something. “Is that a promise?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“It is discourteous to answer a question with another question.” But she was smiling as she said it, a slightly broader smile.

Seven save me, he thought, you’re so lovely, I can barely breathe. Princess Rhaenys was right to warn her away from those singers; one look at her smile and they must have yearned to carry her off over their shoulders, to sail away with her under the cover of night. What he said when he found his tongue was, “You are enjoying this.”

She stepped backwards away from him, and towards her dragon. The dragonkeepers had saddled her while they were talking. Moondancer was still tense; would a flight see her settled as well as a song? “Why we came is a matter of little and less enjoyment.” Baela paused, uncharacteristically grave, then her voice brightened, “So, why not seek it where I may?” She looked at him over her shoulder and winked.

A smile played across Daeron’s mouth. “Is that a promise?”

“Do you want it to be?”

He was laughing as he called to her retreating form. “Tis discourteous to answer a question with another question.”

Her merry backward wave was the only answer he received.

Read more on Ao3

[pluviophile-imagines]

im so sorry @saintshigaraki usurper gojo grabbed me by the throat n suddenly this appeared......... (edit: went insane, if u liked the concept check out the masterlist or my usurper!gojo tag)

it’s a whisper that rushes through the guards as they lead you through the twisting corridors of the castle’s dark, claustrophobic escape routes—a frantic, hushed whisper, full of incredulous tones and wild-eyed glances at her majesty whose side you never leave, whose hand you never let go of.

gojo satoru, it hisses, and it makes your blood run cold.

the leader wears a blindfold, they say—to cover up his eyes, that distinctive blue, marking the gojo family lineage and last seen on the former crown prince, only child of a king who passed of a fever mere months before his son’s assassination. or so the whisper says, by the dim light of the torches, bouncing off the low ceilings of the corridors, spilling from the mouths of the very people sworn to protect you until their last breath.

your queen is aging, greying at the temples, wrinkling at the eyes; her hearing has been going for years yet the name rings for her clearly enough that her manicured fingers tighten their grip on yours. it surely would, for it belongs to her long-deceased nephew—not by blood, no, she has married into the family, princess of a neighboring kingdom.

your memory conjures up boyish laughter, long fingers tugging on your hair, striking blue eyes soft with first love. you dare not measure it against the terrifying description painted for you of their commander—brutal, enormous, swift, cutting down swathes of men with ease. inhuman, say the whispers, a beast, a monster.

the sounds of battle echo through the claustrophobic tunnels—the clanging of metal, the dying cries of men. behind you, two of your companions weep, clutching onto each other and barely keeping pace. this corridor will open up near the entrance to another, in your favorite library, and from there will be the final stretch beyond the walls. steeds await, one for each courtier and most of the guards. you will escape to the east, the queen’s homeland, where her family is sure to take you in.

you do not get that far.

there are men waiting beyond the bookshelf. too many; they swarm around you like wolves to a downed doe, so dense and armed, push past into the corridors to surround you. and their leader stands at their front—towering over even the tallest of men and holding himself high, blood streaking his tunic and his silver hair, eyes covered with a black cloth.

a war god sent to punish, to consume, to destroy, say the whispers—the ones in the back of your head. the guards are silent.

the queen lets go of your hand for the first time since the captain of the guard had stormed into her room and told you all to flee. she orders her men to stand down; outnumbered as they are, it will be little more than a bloodbath. regally, she approaches, head held high, much to the amusement of the brute before her—his mouth stretches wide and he lifts a wicked sword, arm so long that he needn’t even step forward for the point to press beneath her chin.

“hello, auntie,” he says, grin flashing teeth sharp as the blade he points at your queen. “i hope you didn’t plan to run off before my coronation. we wouldn’t want to miss the festivities, now, would we?”

and you still want to disbelieve, yet with his free hand he reaches up, hooks his thumb beneath the cloth, and reveals a single brilliant blue eye—a gojo eye, the color of the sky and the sea, sign of the gods’ blessing, the physical marker of one born to rule. cold as steel and directed not at the queen but at you, stealing the breath from your lungs with the manic light within.

“not when everything i’ve wanted for so long is finally in reach.”

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AGOT: Daenerys V (Chapter 46)

Why yes, she does! And you won’t believe what happens next.

I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself as she took the stallion's heart in both hands, lifted it to her mouth, and plunged her teeth into the tough, stringy flesh.

She’s literally eating a heart. Is this really not obvious?

+.+

The heart of a stallion would make her son strong and swift and fearless, or so the Dothraki believed, but only if the mother could eat it all. If she choked on the blood or retched up the flesh, the omens were less favorable; the child might be stillborn, or come forth weak, deformed, or female.    

You’d think this first prophecy going to shit might tip some people off, but nope!

+.+

As the smoke ascended, the chanting died away and the ancient crone closed her single eye, the better to peer into the future.

(...)

Finally the crone opened her eye and lifted her arms. "I have seen his face, and heard the thunder of his hooves," she proclaimed in a thin, wavery voice.          

"The thunder of his hooves!" the others chorused.

"As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name." The old woman trembled and looked at Dany almost as if she were afraid. "The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world."    

Hello Drogon.

Maybe we should ask ourselves why this Dothraki woman is trembling and afraid.

+.+

Each of the old women had been a khaleesi once. When their lord husbands died and a new khal took his place at the front of his riders, with a new khaleesi mounted beside him, they were sent here, to reign over the vast Dothraki nation. Even the mightiest of khals bowed to the wisdom and authority of the dosh khaleen. Still, it gave Dany the shivers to think that one day she might be sent to join them, whether she willed it or no.    

What do you mean might? You are entirely too old to believe your husband will always be a khal.

+.+

"My brother Rhaegar was a fierce warrior, my sun-and-stars," she told him 

Nope, not accurate.

+.+

The moon floated on the still black waters, shattering and re-forming as her ripples washed over it.

Shattering and re-forming as her ripples washed over it. Alrighty.

+.+

When she emerged from the lake, shivering and dripping, her handmaid Doreah hurried to her with a robe of painted sandsilk, but Khal Drogo waved her away. He was looking on her swollen breasts and the curve of her belly with approval, and Dany could see the shape of his manhood pressing through his horsehide trousers, below the heavy gold medallions of his belt. She went to him and helped him unlace. Then her huge khal took her by the hips and lifted her into the air, as he might lift a child. The bells in his hair rang softly.

Dany wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck as he thrust himself inside her. Three quick strokes and it was done.

Did I delete this from my brain after the first time? Ughhh.

+.+

"The stallion is the khal of khals promised in ancient prophecy, child. He will unite the Dothraki into a single khalasar and ride to the ends of the earth, or so it was promised. All the people of the world will be his herd."    

The people of the world should not be a herd, and much like Azor Ahai, this sounds more like a warning.

+.+

The crones of the dosh khaleen came first, with their eunuchs and slaves.

x

Alongside the procession, slaves ran lightly through the grass with torches in their hands

x

Dany climbed off her silver and gave the reins to one of the slaves. 

x

A slave knelt before him, offering a wooden platter full of ripe figs.

x

He held out his cup, and a slave filled it with fermented mare's milk, sour-smelling and thick with clots.    

x

He shouted a command. Cook slaves pulled a heavy iron stew pot from the firepit

x

A slave handed him a pair of thick horsehair mittens

There they are again.

+.+

Dany had not known, had not even suspected. "Then … he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only to ask. He is my brother … and my true king."    

(...)

"You do not understand, ser," she said. "My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have."

x

Viserys was weeping, she saw; weeping and laughing, both at the same time, this man who had once been her brother.     

x

"What did he say?" the man who had been her brother asked her, flinching.   

x

Qotho seized the man who had been her brother by the arms.

x

And upended the pot over the head of the man who had been her brother.

Boy, that was quick.

It was funny when the creators pointed to this moment as being the first real tell, and her fandom losing it.

It wasn’t a commentary on whether he deserved to die, they were referring to her quick disassociation during the violence, you muppets.

+.+

He was no dragon, Dany thought, curiously calm. Fire cannot kill a dragon.    

Read a book, Daenerys.

Final thoughts:

Imagine not seeing Dark!Dany coming from a mile away from the very first book. Can’t relate.

-> return to menu <-

[forlove2020]

Suptober ‘21

Day 8- Leather & Lace

"Mom?" Dean whispers.

She's standing in the doorway of the Bunker; she'd let herself in with the key he'd given her a few years back.  Dean's pretty drunk, but not to the point of hallucinations, at least he hadn't thought so until now.

 Mary looks about the same as when he'd last seen her; before she'd been killed and it had broken his heart yet again, except this time she's soaking wet from the ice and snow that she must have trekked through to reach the door.

Mary chokes out a laugh. "Hi - I'm home." Her voice makes unbidden tears spring to Dean's eyes. He finds himself stumbling toward her and she's taking the steps two at a time.

A hint of common sense muddles through the monumental amount of booze Dean has accumulated in his bloodstream and he freezes in his tracks. Mary stops too, standing a mere ten feet away on the landing before him. Silently, she offers her arm and numbly, Dean reaches for a silver blade.

Her eyes are absurdly gentle as his hands shake through the silver test, splashes of holy water, an exorcism, and more. Dean can't bring himself to touch her, to believe this is real. His breath is coming in short gasps. First Eileen, and now Mom...Dean can't trust this, can't let himself have hope; he doesn't know how to believe that good things are something that he can keep.

"Dean?" Mary finally asks. She's starting to look worried and somehow that's what does the trick: just like that, Dean finally breaks.

His knees buckle, he crumples onto them and hits the Bunker floor with a thud but still can't speak, can't answer her because he's crying too hard. "Please," he croaks, nearly bent in half as the force of his grief, loss, and love punches him hard in the gut. "Please."

Mary drops down beside him. "Oh, baby," she breathes. "My poor baby." Then her arms are around him and Dean holds on to her as tightly as he can. He can smell her skin; a mix of leather and lace, smoke and cinnamon, and he weeps as she soothes him as if he were four years old once more. 

"I lost him, Mom," he chokes, finally pouring his heart out to the first person he'd ever loved and lost, whose death had been followed by far too many others. "He told me he loved me and I couldn't say a word." Her jacket is soaked now from both the elements and his tears, and Dean grips her hands so hard he's afraid he'll break her.

But Mary has always been stronger than he thinks. She whispers condolences and gentles him through the storm, until he has no words left, only weary tears. "I've got you," she promises and kisses his forehead. "I'm here, Dean. I'm here." 

The Bunker door slams open, startling them. Sam and Eileen come barrelling inside. "Dean!" Sam barks, wild-eyed and afraid. "Someone must've broken…" and stops dead.

Dean and Mary look up, their faces sporting matching tearstains. 

"Mom - ?" Sam's flying at them, his giant feet taking the steps two at a time, throwing his arm around them both until the three of them on the floor, clinging to each other, a mess of laughter and tears.

In a minute, they will get up off the floor and Sam will introduce Eileen to Mom as his girlfriend. In another couple minutes, they will go into the kitchen, drinking coffee and tea in an effort to warm themselves as they try to push away the chill of the outside world for a short while. Quite soon, they will set Mary up in a bedroom down the hall, where she will decide, for the very first time, that she wants to stay.

But for now, Dean beckons Eileen over and she joins in their awkward family group hug right there on the floor. For now, the four of them hold one another, ignoring their sorrows for a little while longer.

For now, despite the pain, they find comfort in the home they have with each other.

                                                 END

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I'm still working on Suptober 21 days 5-7, so here is a short fluffy/angsty fic for day 8 in the meantime!

-My goal is to make all of the Suptober 21 prompts I write one shots that will tie in to my work in progress fix-it fic (Destiel, Saileen, post 15x20, etc.)

Thank you for reading!

-V

[music-of-dragons]

AGOT Dany V

I love this chapter, but it's so sad...

Loose Key for organization:

● Summary ○My Thoughts

● Chapter 5 opens with Drogo setting the Stallion heart before her, it's time for the heart eating ritual 🤢

○ Dany once again thinks to herself that she is the blood of the dragon to give herself strength when feeling uncertain.

● Dany must eat all of the heart and retch up nothing or else the omens for her child will be less favorable. She completely finishes the heart and proclaims that a prince rides inside her in her best Dothraki.

○ Dany is becoming more familiar with the language and appealed to their culture to garner support for her unborn son! She practiced the phrase for days, she is dedicated.

● Khal Drogo himself is tense as they wait in silence for the prophecy of the crone.

~"I have seen his face, and heard the THUNDER of his hooves...as swift as THE WIND he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers THE EARTH, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. FIERCE as A STORM this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The BELLS in his hair will sing his coming, and the MILK MEN in the STONE TENTS will fear his name."~

○ This is the prophecy of the Stallion who Mounts the World, and I believe that the Stallion is actually Daenerys. The prophecy has some very specific imagery which I capitalized for emphasis. So first off, THUNDER, FIERCE AS A STORM, Daenerys's given name is Daenerys STORMBORN for the great storm she was born in that smashed the Targaryen Fleet and held off the Usurper's knives. Second, swift as THE WIND can have 2 meanings. Dany called her silver the wind when she was gifted her, she will also eventually become a dragonrider who flies on the wind. Third, Dany wears bells in her hair long after the death of Khal Drogo, her handmaids add them after each victory, so Dany's coming may very well be sung by the bells in her hair. Fourth, the MILK MEN in their STONE TENTS are the people of Westeros, Dany has plans to conquer Westeros. Once word spreads of Daenerys Targaryen coming to conquer Westeros with her dragons, her name will be feared. The Stallion prophecy will come to pass, so if not Rhaego, who? His mother. The crones sensed it but assumed it was her son cause patriarchy. She will grow from broodmare, to Stallion.

●After the heart eating ritual, Dany, Drogo, and a procession of Dothraki walk to the Womb of the World. Dany bathes in the small lake while the crones watch her and murmur among themselves, then she emerges dripping and shivering.

○ I think the womb of the world will come into importance later in the story, when Dany is decreed the Stallion, but that's for another chapter.

● After the events at the womb of the world, everyone returns to Khal Drogo's hall. There are many foods and drinks being cooked and served, and one of those foods mentioned, is a pomegranate! Dany thinks to herself that she knows no arakhs will clash this night due to the sacred laws and customs of Vaes Dothrak forbidding steel and bloodshed. Dany invites Jorah to sit and talk with her. She learns from him that Viserys tried to steal her dragon eggs.

~Dany had not known, had not even suspected. "Then… he should have them. He does not need to steal them. He had only ask. He is my brother… and my true king."

"He is your brother," Ser Jorah acknowledged.

"You do not understand, ser," she said. "My mother died giving me birth, and my father and my brother Rhaegar even before that. I would never have known so much as their names if Viserys had not been there to tell me. He was the only one left. The only one. He is all I have."

○ I think Dany's response to the news of Viserys trying to steal from her is very telling of her character. She never stopped loving Viserys despite everything he did to her. He is her only living family and she feels that she owes him so much for protecting her, raising her, and telling her the stories of Westeros. It wasn't until this next moment that everything truly came crashing down.

● Viserys comes striding in looking a mess, drunk, overly confident… and wearing a longsword on his belt. The Dothraki are already throwing curses and angry mutterings are all around, the music dies. He has broken their sacred law. Khal Drogo exacerbates his fickle state by telling him his place is with the lowest of the low, furthest from the fires. Drogo says in the common tongue, ~"Is place… for Sorefoot King. A cart! Bring cart for Khal Raggat!" And the hall erupts in laughter. Viserys tussles with Jorah before he is knocked to the floor, then finally draws his blade.

●~Dany gave a wordless cry of terror. She knew what a drawn sword meant here, even if her brother did not.~ Dany is terrified for Viserys, she knows that what he did means death. She BEGS him to put the sword away, to join her on her cushions, she offers him food and drink and even her dragon eggs, so long as he puts away the sword. Viserys turns the blade on Dany, pricking her stomach with the end of the sword. He threatens to cut out Drogo's "foal" and leave it for him. ~Viserys was weeping, she saw; weeping and laughing, both at the same time, this man who had once been her brother.~

○ That last line is so depressing. Dany never stopped thinking of Viserys as her brother until the moment he threatened her son. Dany loves and values Rhaego over anything else, she found happiness and purpose in her pregnancy. When the one who was supposed to love and protect her threatens to kill who she loves most in the world, she could no longer tolerate his abuses, and could no longer see him as her brother. It's heartbreaking for her.

● ~Viserys smiled and lowered his sword. That was the saddest thing, the thing that TORE at her afterward...the way he smiled.~

○ There is no doubt that Dany mourned her brother after his death, no doubt. She mourned for the brother he used to be, not the man he became.

●The next moment has Drogo holding Dany as his men sieze Viserys. By this point, she only refers to him as "the man who had been her brother". She describes Drogo not even looking at "the man". When Jorah tells her to turn away, she say no, and folds her arms over her stomach protectively. Viserys gets his golden crown after screaming that he was THE DRAGON and that no one could harm him. ~He was no dragon, Dany thought, curiously calm. Fire cannot kill a dragon.~

○ Dany's lime about Viserys not being a dragon is an abuse victim coming to terms with the death of her abuser. Viserys struck terror into her heart from the time she was a child by telling her she "woke the dragon" and hurting her. She feared him, she was meek and submissive because of him, she bent to the whims of others who saw her as nothing because of him. When that image finally crumbles before her, she is in shock. She had just gone from pride and happiness, to terror for the life of her brother, terror again for the life of her own child and body, to withdrawn acceptance of the situation at hand. Viserys was never a dragon in the way that he used it. A dragon by blood, but not in character. That's what Dany meant.

Art by Ted Nasmith!

[mrsunderhill678]

Ya girl’s writttttinnnnn’

“My name is written in storm clouds and rainy days, I am the lightning licking the waves and the storm pursuin' the fucking sailor.” - Zafavri Holts

“Look at the truth, how it molds and twists, in this long life I've lived I've learned truth kills the kindest 'a men. You thought lies were damning? Just wait until you see the truth that slinks in the damn shadows.” - Zafavri Holts

“You've heard of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and the Axeman of New Orleans, and you'd think the scariest thing about em would be their killer deeds. But the most horrifyin' thing about the darkest 'a men is, they were once normal, men. They was kids, playin' in the grass, fools runnin' after girls in the fifth grade, dreamin' of sunny days and sunflowers castin' beautiful shade.” - Zafavri Holts

“Your power is in words and hearts, mine is in blood and howls.” - Zafavri Holts

“I was once, just like you, dreamin' of better days, smilin' as my wife walked through the door, tuckin' my kids inta their beds. But the truth took the good man I was in it's stride, and replaced me with a sinister specter 'a all the killers before me. I am Jack the Ripper and Ted Bundy, the Zodiac Killer and the Axeman of New Orleans, but worst of all, I'm Zafavri fucking Holts.” - Zafavri Holts

“My father once said he's one dead dream away from blasphemy, and with a life of screeching dreams and dying nightmares I must confess, I fear I myself am blasphemy.” - Polaris Cougar

“I lost my mind in the confines of my skull.” - Barlo Brick

“I spin this chamber 'gainst my head and wonder why it ain't gone off. Perhaps fate holds her finger against the hammer, daring me to make a move against her.” - Barlo Brick

“I play games with my life, rolling these dice, playing these shitty cards as if they were a good hand. I'm an addict of fate and destiny, playing moves against her so she'll play fatal moves against me. I tease fate with promises of my doom, praying she'll take a lowlife like me.” - Barlo Brick

“I'm a reflection of my father's sins, drowning myself in the lights of the casino.” - Barlo Brick

“I walk, I talk, I breathe like me, but I ain't me.” - Tommy Graves

“Me father once told me, that if ya've got a board full 'a pawns, and the foe's board is full 'a kings, you play a tricky game of Queen's Gambit.” - Tommy Graves

“I'd say I've made friends with my demons, but they've made friends with me shadows, leavin' me an outcast in my own damn mind.” - Tommy Graves

“I'm startin' ta fear that all my thoughts are all my friends, and I'm me only enemy.” - Tommy Graves

“If my mother could see me now, she'd shake 'er damn 'ead. She'd say, "Tommy, with thoughts like these, you'll end up yer last damn name." - Tommy Graves

“Even when you don't seek it, destiny shall arrive all the same.” - Baron Xaverkit

“Karma rewards those who love with destines of joy and valor. Be more than a resistance against the dark, be a war of light and joy, love and heartful karma. Be the blade that spares the king, be the coin that sets the hangman free, and be the man who when stricken by his enemy, offers the other side of his cheek. You shall know no greater joy, other than loving others as life has loved you.” - Baron Xaverkit

“I am a mere flicker of a wolf, an ember of a beast. I am the cold afterglow of the beasts that made me, and thus, I am nuthin' but cinder and the pale spark, strivin' for the darkness 'a the night sky.” - D’Angello Campbell

“Look at these stars gazin' at me, some will for me ta reach em, others gather their rifles and prepare for war.” - D’Angello Campbell

“As I stare my enemies dead in the eye, and watch their smiles flicker like old film, I realize it is a mirror I stand before. Those are my hands grippin' the porcelain sink, and I wonder where the blood drippin' from the faucet came from.” - D’Angello Campbell

“My son has stared me in the eye and declared me the devil, he looks at me with rage in his eyes, the same betrayal the lord must'a felt as the devil swore ta rise above him.” - D’Angello Campbell

“This flicker of a wolf is slowly learnin' how ta fade.” - D’Angello Campbell

“In the hollow cracks of my smile I have found regret so deeply interwoven with my heart that it flows as blood through my veins.” - Bellamy Cooper

“I lie awake in bed, reaching for memories that are not there. Regina, my love, she tasted like home and everything I'd never had... I saw so much when I looked at her... I saw a sheet of twinkling stars, the sun bringing warmth... But most beautifully, I saw that woman dancing under the light of the moon, as if she was drunk off it's pale glow, enjoying the way the world spun. But I don't dance any more, I don't hold her hand in mine, she does not hold my scars. Fate has torn us from each other, and though every night, we star up at the same moon, I have to wonder, do the stars look at the same people?” - Bellamy Cooper

“The stars may gaze upon me and wonder, oh bastard dove in the pale moon glow, who have you become?” - Bellamy Cooper

“I carry this sin on my shoulders as if it was a part of me, as if it was the flecks of white in my hair and the love that once wept in my smile. But these sins were never apart of me, just things I did.” - Bellamy Cooper

“As my love looks to the moon, and knows it is the same moon I gaze upon, I hope she knows, it does not gaze upon the same man.” - Bellamy Cooper

“All my enemies were first my heroes.” - Paviro Le Rouge

“I could murder a drink for all these sins at my back, they've weaved themselves into the fabric of my coat, and though the devil on my shoulder is nothing more than stitches on my jacket, I listen to the whispers of the damned man upon this sinner's coat.” - Paviro Le Rouge

“All the candles have flickered out, the wind ripped the flame from the candle's wick, leaving nothing but the wax to remember the warmth of the flame.” - Paviro Le Rouge

“I once believed my heart held value, but it is my belief that it's only value is the ending of it's beat.” - Paviro Le Rouge

“Do the gods wish to serve me to fate on a silver platter? Am I a toy to destiny? I am a mortal vessel of higher powers, these whispers in my head tell me, "You will defy destiny, she will crawl at your knees and weep," but what of my, destiny? How can I defy destiny yet follow her road?” - Paviro Le Rouge

“To defy destiny is to succumb to eternity.” - Paviro Le Rouge

“A man once asked me, if I ever thought that I'm not myself, that to die would be to finally be me. And I must confess, if the void were to take me now, I'd find peace in that.” - Howdy Woolen

“Everyone thinks they know me better than I do, but if they spent one day in my mind they'd scream, shout and beg that someone would let them out.” - Howdy Woolen

“My demons share my name and my face, but with those crooked smiles, how could they possibly be me?” - Howdy Woolen

“I look to this ash around me, these scorched dreams and ashen nightmares, and I beg my father to forgive me. But how can he forgive me for killing his own son?” - Howdy Woolen

“Chaos is fair in da fact dat it kills all.” - Aggemuth Williamson

“God knelt ta me level and told me dat all men were created equal, in da fact dat all men die.” - Aggemuth Williamson

“Death cares not for who we are, it don't give a bloody fuck whether you're youn' or old, it'll rip through ya and call ye alive.” - Aggemuth Williamson

“I am a wicked wolf who knows chaos is da forest in which I strive. Dese shadows are death, da light flickerin' from da trees is nuffin' but false salvation, for just above da trees lies a wicked beast. Red rain falls from da forest leaves, remindin' us dat in chaos' forest, we are all nuffin' but blood to be spilled and graves ta be fuckin' dug.” - Aggemuth Williamson

“Eden only 'eld me down, da snake in da garden was me, I was da forbidden fruit, I was Eve and Adam. But most wicked 'a all, I am da heavenly father that placed secrets in paradise, and damned innocent men for the fings I did.” - Aggemuth Williamson

“Blood and death for peace will never be true order. We live a lie, believing hate can drive out hate.” - Shaymelina Demablossom

“I am willing to walk a mile in a bad man's boots if it meant I could see the world through his eyes.” - Shaymelina Demablossom

“ We are not creatures of blood and death, we are butterflies soon to soar, cats playing curiously in the field. We are dogs, chasing the cat because we think it wants to play.” - Shaymelina Demablossom

“Evil comes from brokenness, but so does strength, so why choose cruelty?” - Shaymelina Demablossom

“I am a reflection of my enemies, a sinful projection of my fucking vengeance. As I stand before heaven's gates, all that shall be left are three corpses on the floor and two empty fucking six shooters. After all, an empty chamber and blood pooling beneath my feet is the sinful mark of revenge.” - Jake Warden

“This heart beating in my chest is no symbol of love, tear into my ribs and you'll find the pitch black night sky, for the moon crashed hurtling into the Earth, leaving nothing but vengeful stars, mourning for the home they lost.” - Jake Warden

“My sister told me to rebuild my bridges, but how am I to do that when I leave nothing but fire in my wake? I only seek for those behind me to crumble on the ashen bridge. May they follow my footsteps, only to drown in the roaring river below the bridges I fucking burnt.” - Jake Warden

“Oh Roan fucking Scorpio, you are a beast amongst men, a wicked werewolf, but so am I, so am I. My fur has grown more ragged than yours, my coat more blood-stained than yours, yet still I seek this damning vengeance. You are a wolf of family and love, yet I howl of loss. I could drag you through the dark, and still, you'd fight for something less than yourself.” - Jake Warden

“My hands tremble 'pon a dead man's gun, and as I stare down the barrel 'a this rifle, I fear it's me I'm aimin' at. I see them burnin' wings, I recognize them howls as he falls hellbent through the midnight sky, cuz they came from my own fuckin' throat. But all I do is take aim, breathe in, breathe out, and shoot this fallin' angel from the damn sky.” - Roan Scorpio

“My oldest frien' always did say he was Icarus, I wonder if he found solace as he burned? We were both wolves in the field, strappin' wings to our backs, dreamin' 'a sumthin' greater.” - Roan Scorpio

“I'm a child 'a the streets and a warrior 'a the highways, cuz I stalk these forests, boundin' cross the road in hopes the cars will catch me, sendin' me blood-streaked across the damn grass.” - Roan Scorpio

“It's a big world out there, ya got sinners by the dozen and dwindlin' saints, but I spose I'm somewhere between that spectrum.” - Roan Scorpio

“Vengeance kills most men before they evah gain it.” - Roan Scorpio

“I know what it is to be a sheep, there were once pain in my name and tears in my smile, but as I looked through the eyes of me father, and saw his reflection in me own, I learned always was I a wolf, swindled in a sheep's soft fur.” - Bodean Clemegrine

“All who have been within the scope of my rifle have fell in spurts of crimson salvation.” - Bodean Clemegrine

“In death there is mercy, and in mercy there is death.” - Bodean Clemegrine

“If you've known fear, than you've known me, friend. For I carve myself into your darkest memories, and every thought of me shall be followed with shivers up your spine and cracks in your smile.” - Bodean Clemegrine

“I am the wolf in Shepperd's clothing.” - Bodean Clemegrine

“I've learned that monsters don't hide these days, they've too much courage for our own good.” - Terissa Dyste

“My husband wanted me to waste my hate on him, to rot away every moment of my day with crooked thoughts of his haunted bay.” - Terissa Dyste

“I can see regret in my angel's eyes, death flickers in his smile, and blood hides within the cracks of his heart. But I am here to fill them with love.” - Terissa Dyste

“Salvatore is no bloodthirsty beast, he is no wolf, he's the sheep with a heart too large for a single man to handle. He cares so deeply for others, that he would sacrifice himself to rid them of the pain they've been through. He causes his own pain to save others from it. He is no reflection of those he's killed, for they are bad men, and he is the knight in rusted armor, who has had his metal and valor tested again and again.” - Terissa Dyste

“I love him, despite the pieces of himself he calls ugly, I will twirl them between my fingers and call them lovely.” - Terissa Dyste

“I shall not suffer, I shall grow.” - Terissa Dyste

“You know, my brother once told me, in all his grief, that every time he closes his eyes, he can see the flickering of the fire and the sparks of regret, but I told him, that's just his bridges burning.” - Kindle Xaverthin

“We can't dwell on the past, it's where all our pain comes from, but if we push forward into the unknown, we'll find ourselves in bliss, for if we don't finish the race, how do we ever win? It doesn't matter what place we finish at, just that we do.” - Kindle Xaverthin

“I will follow the road less traveled if that's what it takes, but when needed, I will follow the populated road. I will walk in the crowds and find my purpose in the many.” - Kindle Xaverthin

“I refuse to believe that failure exists. Just temporary defeat. So long as we fight, so long as we strive for something greater, we'll survive. I don't care if your goal is to simply breathe another day or to get out of bed in the morning. That in of itself is strength. Set small goals and conquer them, and as time goes on, you'll realize you scaled Everest inch by inch, without breaking a sweat.” - Kindle Xaverthin

“My grief is a hungry wolf, prowling in my mind, dragging the good memories I had through the dark, ensnaring them in his bloodthirsty maw.” - Markain Hallows

“Turn your heart to the trail behind me, and realize they are lost prayers and dying verses. Behind me is a melody of the damned, and ahead of me is the end of it.” - Markain Hallows

“No wolf dragged me off in it's jaw, no beast took me in it's maw, for it was I who looked in the mirror and reaped all he saw.” - Markain Hallows

“I travel through the night sky like a regretful midnight dove, my feather's have been stained the color the of night I prowl.” - Markain Hallows

“You ever flip a coin and watch in horror as it lands on fate?” - Crow Abervith

“Fate has been controlled by the powerful, and though the lord tries to send a message to you and I, those in power turn it into a threat.” - Crow Abervith

“The dogs have been set free from the pound, and though they barked their warnings and bared their teeth, the wolves howled and left their blood to run on the streets.” - Crow Abervith

“The world is fading out, shouting it's final words, and all we can do is picture it's grave.” - Crow Abervith

“What is life but old wallpaper, resold and refurbished, sold as a chipped away dream?” - Shurrick Gray

“I can't stand these roses on the path, cause I'm a pessimist, I can only look at all those damn thorns.” - Shurrick Gray

“Secrets are barrels of guns and chambers, and I suppose the powerful pull the damn trigger.” - Shurrick Gray

“They tell us to think five moves ahead whilst they think ten. They tell us to charge into the smoke, for the battleground is clear, but this smog only ever hid our foes.” - Shurrick Gray

“My mother always told me, "It gets better, son, it gets better," But under these floorboards are where my memories linger, and in these halls are thoughts of home that force tears from my eyes.” - Shurrick Gray

“Look at me, selling my life as a chipped away dream, telling myself it gets better. But it doesn't, because the lights have kicked the stool, and this dream swings from a noose in the spotlight.” - Shurrick Gray

“I’ve spent my life with one foot in the grave. Life is a cruel and relentless teacher, whipping me upon every failure, demanding I give it my all.” - Juno

“My father was, everything to me... Really. He gave me the patience to find myself, he held my hand through the path and when needed... He let go. He's the strongest man I've ever known, he was the pillars to this castle I roam, and without him, I feel as if I am crumbling.” - Juno

“I am the damned savior of the human race, a hero who realized he was a villain all along.” - Cedric Popovici

“I 'ave been exiled from myself, I rattle the bars 'a this cell, shoutin' at the guards to let me the fuck out. But it's me guardin' this cell, I'm my own damn Alcatraz, and as I look at the world through diamond eyes I realize, I ain't the hero, just the terror who called himself such.” - Cedric Popovici

“The way I see it, I shook hands with the devil ta rid the world of a devil, only to realize it's my hand I were shakin.” - Cedric Popovici

“Every night 'a my life I see angels fall from the sky, and as the sun sinks I pray it takes me in her stride.” - Cedric Popovici

“The executioner raises his blade and said, "When I raise this sword, so I wish this poor sinner eternal life." And as my head rolled from my neck, I realized I could blink, I could breathe, I could feel.” - Cedric Popovici

“The remnants 'a my soldier's cape flutters behind me, and it only stays on my shoulders cuz I hold a gun and pull a trigger. I wear this purple heart on my jacket, and I spose the only reason that bastard's purple is cuz'a the bruises I put there. We're all sheep, I's learned, eatin' from the dryer side 'a the pasture.” - Cedric Popovici

“I don't need a million dreams, just this one.” - Maliella Ryder

“Loife 'as beaten me down and shouted ta the 'eavens, "Allelujah! Da bastard's dead!" But as I stand, and raise moi fists, loife sighs, and prepares for anotha round.” - Billy Jenkins

“I dun't look back at failure, mate, I look forward at da success dat will rise from it.” - Billy Jenkins

“I stand by and protect me sister, she's been through a struggle 'a da mind and soul, and I reckon it's da battle fought wifout guns dat 'urt da most. She's strong, fo' bein' 'erself, and I reckon ta be yerself in a world full'a liars is da greatest achievement 'a all.” - Billy Jenkins

“I hold onta my ma's words, cause some days, I see her smoile in mine.” - Billy Jenkins

“Da sun will rise again, wif or wifout me, I cannot tell, but so long as it rises, I bloody smile.” - Billy Jenkins

“I check my vitals and find my heart still beats, and some days... I think that's unfortunate. My secrets will be buried below me, bury me six feet deep, my secrets deeper.” - Laverne Powell

“It's hard to get well when your mind poisons you with thoughts from years ago. Some days I fear my mind is still plagued by those damning thoughts.” - Laverne Powell

“If the past effects the future, then I fear what's to come.” - Laverne Powell

“Either I'm a broken saint, or a very bad man.” - Chad Broker

“I've let go of all I am, wonderin' why, oh why must I be the outcast, the hissin' cat in a room full 'a barkin', hungry dogs?” - Chad Broker

“I'd shatter the mirror with my fist ta kill my damn reflection. Fractures 'a me splittin' my knuckles and breakin' my bones.” - Chad Broker

“I stare at the waves and know they slip away just like me. I stand in this murky sand, watchin as the ripplin' water distorts my vision. Always looks like you're runnin' as ya stand in the ocean, but ya stay stagnant, don't you? I fear I'm damned, runnin' in the ocean, knowin' the hellhounds will catch me cuz I stand still.” - Chad Broker

“Jerome's always said he's my shadow, where once he was my light. He's just a lost boy, and I'm a broken one, and once ya mix the two togethah, ya don't get a man found, ya get broken glass, mixin' itself inta the sand.” - Chad Broker

“The mirror ain't nuthin' but a reflection 'a trouble comin' and my sins in the wind.” - Chad Broker

“I'm a freakshow, who made it ta heaven only ta realize ta higher powers I'm the damn jester.” - Chad Broker

“I live in the trenches, fighting for a better life, but those I love hurtle grenades and flashbangs into this broken soldier's trench, throwing fractured pieces of self hate and tainted love into my chest.” - Saiq A’Badula

“Beauty flees from war, the grass withers, the flowers die, and the birds forget to sing. Instead, the beauty of nature is replaced with our unnatural acts.” - Saiq A’Badula

“They tell me "You're a soldier, boy, weren't you taught how to march on?" All I can do is nod my head, but I was only ever taught to march into the pain, not away from it.” - Saiq A’Badula

“I am a soldier buried alive under the rubble of his soft spoken regrets and wrongly placed anger. Flowers will bloom from this damned soldier's grave, and it leaves me to wonder, is it when I die I'll finally know beauty? Will I find love in the rising of the roses and the daisies? And I wonder, is death a cruel force? Or is she a kind mistress, taking our hand and leading us to peace?” - Saiq A’Badula

“In my presence, the birds forget to sing, the sun forgets to rise. I am the dark that allows the light to exist, I am the shiver up your spine that whispers, "Run, I am the dark." Look at these pitiful gods, thinking they have me enslaved. They bind me but do not control me. I am seen as a children's story, a warning to be good, but as they speak of me I grow stronger, my strength comes from their fear and the shadows that frighten them out of sleep.” - Kragikul

“Long ago, Life told me this world was not meant for the dark, if that was so, then tell me, pitiful goddess, why do the stars shine? Why do you find refuge in the shade when the sun bares down, but fear it at night? Am I the defining factor of your fear?” - Kragikul

“I prowl this shade, I hear every prayer, every thought, I reside in saint's dreams and sinner's nightmares, I am the beast that monster's warn their children of. Have you ever seen the dark flee? As the sun rises it scurries, and if the monsters fear me, does that make me the light?” - Kragikul

“I am the original sin, the gods look upon me in sinking horror as they realize, peace is fading. My chains grow rust, these vines around me slowly wither, and all the dark has begun to flee.” - Kragikul

“You want peace? It cannot exist with violence such as I.” - Kragikul

“Life ain't gonna break me down, I'm a ramblin' man who finds peace in the dusty fields 'a wheat and crop. I live true and loyal like they used ta, the world may'a crashed down 'pon us, and most men may'a turned ta sin, but these morals 'a mine stand strong in the face 'a damnation.” - Timmy Dayfield

“We all one day find ourselves at a crossroads, and the devil tells us ta shake his hand. It's your choice ta stand unshaken or shake the hand 'a the man in the suit and tie. Cause the devil ain't a creature with pointy lil' horns and a pitchfork. He looks like you, frien', he looks like me, and everythin' you ever wanted. But are yer dreams worth the killin' 'a your morals?” - Timmy Dayfield

“I've walked many a mile in these boots 'a mine, and I've walked in the boots 'a others. When ya see the world through another man's eyes, you'll either see that you're right, or you owe the man an apology.” - Timmy Dayfield

“To all the other wayfarin' strangers out there, findin' themselves at the crossroads, I say. May the wind be at your back, may good fortune touch your hand, and may your resolve stay strong in the face of the shake of a hand.” - Timmy Dayfield

“Time isn't my lover, it isn't my friend, it kills me slowly and drags this life of mine through miles of tragedy ending secrets.” - Evangalice Caesar

“I can still see him in my nightmares, he is a conqueror of time and has bent it to his will. It refuses to take him, for he sits upon a throne of humanity's end.” - Evangalice Caesar

“I'm driven by this hate for beasts I cannot possibly kill, I'm mortal, time eats away at me, but it does not eat away at him.” - Evangalice Caesar

“I can hear his laugh by the light of the moon, I can hear is hauntings and warnings in my sleep. My worst fear is not death, it is the sinful beast, dancing in the light of our suffering. He looks at our pain, he looks at these flames ravaging us, and he calls it beautiful.” - Evangalice Caesar

“I will go up in flames and down in history, for my dynasty shall live beyond me.” - Madusius Crudellis

“Tyranny stands strong in the face of revolution.” - Madusius Crudellis

“These men and women killed are a part of my history, in my memory they are immortal, begging for mercy I don't know how to give.” - Madusius Crudellis

“In the thunder I can hear my dynasty, it is it's own entity. It howls and it barks, it rips into all who oppose it. A blood thirsty wolf, my dynasty is.” - Madusius Crudellis

“I, in of myself, am a dynasty, I am of bones-soon-to-be-broken, and flesh-soon-to-be-cut, it is my mortality that shall create my immortality.” - Madusius Crudellis

“I shall go down in history by force.” - Madusius Crudellis

“Darkness was a concept created before God, even he must bow to it.” - Deandra Cross

“My dreams have died to spite me, I am in a cell of nightmares, and the wolf I am stalks the corner. She's such a damned thing, I can see the rage in her eyes and the hurt in her soul, but to survive this world, I must become her. This wolf like mask must become me. I will stitch these threads into my skin until this mask becomes apart of me. I shall forget who I am underneath, for she was not strong enough to survive the world.” - Deandra Colt

“My sister once told me that the weak get by, the broken die off, but the strong survive and bring fear in their stride. And I guess in order ta survive I had ta be the one takin' lives in my stride.” - Hailey Colt

“All the lights that pollute the sky could not bring light ta the dark in my heart.” - Hailey Colt

“Your demons depend on you ta feed dem, so taunt dem and let dem starve on 'ope.” - Celeste Crinklaw

“Me feathers glow with love and rage, regret and joy, I'm a war cry 'a everyfin' I've evah been, and if loife's a war, give me a bloody blade, mate.” - Celeste Crinklaw

“In me dreams I see a pale white 'orse, 'e beckons me ta follow, tells me dat I can be born again, and everytoime I follow 'im, I see a face I've seen before. In dat pale 'orse's eyes I see someone I knew, but I can't place who. 'E beckons me toward da dark, tellin' me dat is where I belong, but I refuse ta rise from the ashes as sumfin' I ain't.” - Celeste Crinklaw

“I look ta dat pale 'orse in da 'orizon, all I ask, is, "Old frien', where's your rider?" A lonely horse, 'e is, da 'orse 'a my dreams, beckonin' me ta nightmares. 'E's lonesome, wearin' the remnants 'a his saddles and the remains 'a his scars on 'is hide. And all I ask, is where 'ave I seen 'im before?” - Celeste Crinklaw

"You cannot come to understand the depths of the world, you believe the shadows to be the darkest thing this world has to offer, but I have seen things darker than the nebula." - The Watcher

"I have seen things no man could ever dream, let along things that he would want to. All my life I have wished to be a hero, but it is gritty work, it drains away at the soul, and I must wonder how much of it I have left these days." - Ickden Harloff

"There are things in this world that we do not understand, sadly, they must be condemned for it is the dark from whence they came." - Ryan Sanzberg

"My vengeance is immortal, but sadly that must mean, as am I." - Warden Wickersford

"My hope left with the beatin' 'a my love's heart." - Travis Vekington

"When ya lose everythin', what're you supposed ta become?" - Travis Vekington

"Went through hell on a Sunday an' cursed the damn pews cause despite it all, they damn me." - King Wardown

"Cowardice kills people, I've learned, but alas, it keeps me alive." - Verez Vagawit

"You can throw me to the wolves, but I imagine I'll be alright. After all, they hunt to live and the blood on their teeth is of survival, not sport." - James Ace

"Most people can't change because they just don't God damn want to. You can't expect life to change if you don't evolve with it." - Darin Zollo

"I am losing myself, I fear. Faith and hope are hard to come by as your heart slowly falters to the shadow and forgets the warmth of light." - Shan'Bellwitz

"I wish to drift away from this place as nothing more than peace and smoke on the wind." - Shan'Bellron

"I was lost out at sea, trying to find me, but all I became was stranded, vying for something better, yet becoming sumthin' worse." - Ben Stilts “Every sinnin’ man fears the devil.” - Ben Stilts

"Scars leave us bettah or worse off. I reckon mine left me wif' glory." - Pugrish the Mountain

"What's belief without sumthin' to worship?" - Shonas Green

"Ya know what they do with broken men, Mortley? They put em all in this box, and they say, "This is all ya are, we ain't confinin' ya, we're just givin' ya a playground ta roam. But as we get older we realize the walls are sky high and they weren't built ta be fuckin' climbed." - Bortley Dekruiful

"It is in pain that we find a new identity, one which lives alongside the tears." - Mortley Dekruiful

"I'm not concerned about my importance to the world, just the fact that I lived in it, and that it was real." - Milton Modayne "My whole life has been screaming in a single pitch tune, yet I sit here and wonder, what point is there to a chorus when there was never a melody? I am plucking broken strings, expecting a soft song, but I suppose it's foolish, expecting music from a hurting soul." - Milton Modayne

"When you're born in the shade you begin to fall into the delusion that the light is something damning." - Natalia Shelvikit

"As humans we have an innate desire to feel something that is not ourselves, to be something other than we were meant to be. We have been trying to defy destiny for so long that we never thought to pick up the quill and write something other than fate within our lives. We seek to conquer destiny, yet it is what lies outside the realm of fate that we fear." - Ramazalo Shelvikit

"He who fights for himself migh' as well lay down his fists and le' the bullets rain down." - Gromkal Batterfist

"It's strange, how we damn those who fight for justice, but never they who we fight against." - Tovil Quinn

"Dreams are only a broken perception of reality, mate... And sometimes, we need ta wake da fuck up." - Jerry Benson

"Ze zing I fear ze most, iz zat death is ze end. And yet I know that it iz." - Thaddaeus Rediger

"Praying is not the solution to all burdens on the soul." - Jonathan Covaks

I's been carryin' a burden for some time now, you know 'ow crosses are heavy on the back, always pushin' ya back inta the graves ya try to dig, always findin' a new way to rip the skeletons from yer closet." - Mike Fausselkoff

"Sins, always catchin' us humans off guard. We tell ourselves we'll never be like Adam, we'll never be like Eve, but then that forbidden fruit comes along and we begin ta wonder. What does it taste like? We wrap ourselves up in all this curiosity, this wonder. We become our own snakes in our own little garden 'a Eden. Well, I spose that fruit came along." - Mike Fausselkoff

"Mr. Stilts, Mr. Skinwalker, karma is at your door." - Cortez Cloves

"A life of killing is better than a life of rotting." - Cortez Cloves

"If I were you, I would not tempt fate so cruelly. Fate is never in the one man's favor, it is always in the favor of the crowd, never he who flips the coin." - Borbasli Orgazi

[moonlight-breeze-44]

Darkest World, Blackest Night

Summary: 5 times Alec wants to die, and one time he wants to live.

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and show-typical self harm

Read on AO3

~ 1 ~

It was three in the morning. Rain lashed against the windowpanes and thunder roared outside. The cold, blank walls of the New York Institute were the opposite of soundproof; they seemed to amplify every harsh beat of the storm playing its tempestuous song outside.

Alec Lightwood laid on his bed, facing the ceiling. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His jaw was locked in a straight line. He clenched his hands so tightly together that his nails dug bloody half-moon crescents into his skin. Outwardly, he didn’t appear to be struggling. No one who knew Alec would be shocked to see him without a smile on his face, and the harsh marks on his palms were expertly hidden. However, behind his ice-blue eyes, a storm far worse than the gale outside raged.

Alec’s mind was filled with poison. He felt like he was trapped in darkness without a light to be found anywhere. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the incessant thoughts out of his mind. They clawed at him nonstop, their talons dipped in venom so powerful that it brought him to his knees on some nights.

Worthless.

Not good enough.

Useless.

Different.

Strange.

Freak.

Freak!

Alec let a breath of air puff past his lips, the only sign of the chaos running rampant in his mind. His skin itched for a blade, or one of his arrows, or a punching bag. He wanted to hurt. By the Angel, he wanted to hurt.

He wondered what he was doing with himself, really. Who was he, really? He was a Shadowhunter, of course; that much he knew. He was also a gay man. In his mind, those two balanced each other out. A gay Shadowhunter was about as good as a dead Shadowhunter to the Clave. He was a big brother. Yet, despite all of his best efforts, Izzy and Jace still managed to get hurt on some of their missions. Jace could still be found in his room in the dead of the night thrashing from a nightmare, whimpering and reciting, “To love is to destroy; to be loved is to be the one destroyed,” over and over again. Izzy still shrank back from her mother and kept her head down and eyes trained on the floor when Maryse portaled home from Idris to reprimand Alec for something.

In Alec’s twisted, broken view of himself, his role as a big brother was overshadowed by the failures he’d made in being such.

Alec pitched forward and raked his hands through his hair, leaving bloody smears in the inky black locks. He could feel something on the edge of his consciousness, something huge that threatened to rip apart everything he thought he stood for and more. He lowered his head into his hands and let it wash over him.

The realisation hit Alec like a brick to the face. He wanted to hurt, yes. He was about two minutes away from making an impromptu trip to the training room. But more than that, Alec didn’t want to be alive anymore. He was done. Done with the world, done with Shadowhunting, done with his fucking parents and their impossible expectations, done with not being good enough.

Alec wanted to die.

The sure, undeniable statement brought with it chills that raced throughout his entire body. Goosebumps exploded over his arms and tears pricked the back of his eyelids. As a child, he’d promised himself that he would die in a blaze of glory, from valiantly taking on a horde of demons or throwing himself in front of someone else. He would die revered. He would die a hero.

This? This was a coward’s death, and he knew it.

Yet, Alec couldn’t bring himself to want it any less.

“Alec?” A small, soft voice accompanied by three knocks on his bedroom door pulled Alec from his racing thoughts.

It was Izzy.

Alec moved to open his door, hiding his hands behind his back. “What is it, Iz?”

She bit her lip and looked down at the floor. “Can I sleep in here? The storm is scary.”

Alec felt warmth flood his chest. The thoughts from before retreated to a dark corner of his mind in favour of affection for his little sister. “Of course. Come on, get in here.” Izzy smiled gratefully and wrapped her arms around his legs as tight as she could.

“Thanks, bubba.”

Alec reached down and picked her up, carrying her over to his king-sized bed and tucking her in like the princess she was and would always be. She was so innocent. Alec knew that protecting her would always come first for him, no matter what. He still felt the itch, the burning beneath his skin that wanted for something to hurt. But his sister was in his bed, her big doe eyes looking up at him with such love that he knew there was nowhere else on the earth he’d rather be.

Izzy tugged on his wrist impatiently. “Come on!” She gestured to the other side of the bed, and Alec chuckled. He got in himself, throwing an arm around his little sister, who snuggled into his side and let out a happy sigh.

Alec placed a soft kiss on her forehead and closed his eyes.

Izzy’s warmth made him feel a little bit less ice-cold, and he thought to himself that maybe there was a chance he was doing just enough.

~ 2 ~

It was a dark, starless night. Black clouds had slid over the silver-grey face of the moon, obscuring it from view. The only light that permeated the seemingly endless darkness was the artificial glow of the cell tower across the street.

Alec reached into his quiver for what was certainly not the first time that night and nocked another arrow, letting it fly straight and true into the target 500 feet away. Blood dripped from his hands onto the roof of the Institute, but he ignored it. Another release brought another raw, painful line from his bow string, and Alec could almost sigh with the relief it brought.

Another mission had gone wrong. Another unsanctioned mission, to be exact. His parents had portaled from Idris and immediately locked themselves and Alec into the Head of the Institute’s office. The lecture had been unbearable.

“You are bringing shame upon this family, Alexander!”

“This latest endeavor of yours was foolish and irresponsible. I can’t believe you.”

“Your father and I are so disappointed in you, Alexander.”

“You’re supposed to be better than this! How dare you do something so stupid?!”

“Your siblings are hurt because of your incompetence.”

Their scathing words cut into his bleeding heart, and Alec tightened his grip on his bow and released another arrow with so much blinding rage that he was shocked it actually hit its target. His mother was right, of course. Jace and Izzy were in the infirmary because of his failure. He should have known there would be more than one demon. They traveled in packs, for fuck’s sake! And still he had blundered on into this unsanctioned mission and led his siblings straight into what was very nearly a massacre.

A jolt of pain made Alec double over, grimacing. He clutched his side and felt the thick, bulky bandage that was wrapped around his ribcage, concealed by his t-shirt. Technically speaking, he should be in the infirmary, as well. But he knew he didn’t deserve to be; not after what he’d caused. He’d snuck out as soon as Izzy and Jace fell asleep.

A small pool of blood darkened the ground near Alec’s feet. He took it in lazily, unconcerned. The weeping slivers of his palms dripped red steadily onto the stone. Alec lowered his bow and approached the edge of the roof, peering out at the street below. Yellow-orange lights from cars raced by, and various murmurs of city life floated up to the Institute’s roof, mingling with the seemingly deafening pound of Alec’s traitorous heart.

Alec imagined the wind in his face, the weightless sensation of falling, the idea of finally giving up control. Freedom.

He could almost taste it.

A bright, colourful image of Izzy filled Alec’s mind’s eye, followed quickly by an image of Jace. They were both happy; smiling and laughing, the corners of their eyes crinkling with joy.

Alec felt a pang of love surge up in his heart, and he groaned. He could see it easily; flinging himself off of that ledge, hurling himself to the cold, unforgiving street below. Yet, there was something holding him back. Actually, two somethings that had enough brightness in them to light up any room and called him ‘big brother’ with too much adoration and fondness.

Tears filled Alec’s eyes, and he blinked them away angrily. If he was ever going to lean a little too far over the edge, it would not be under the grueling weight of indecision.

Alec looked up to the sky, hoping the dark, toneless clouds might give him a clue as to what he was supposed to do. He just needed a sign; anything to steer him in the right direction.

As he gazed into the night sky, the black clouds began to part and, slowly but surely, a single star was revealed. It was Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. A shadow of a smile flitted across Alec’s face, and he kissed the tantalizing invitation of freedom goodbye for another night.

With one final glance at the star, Alec shouldered his bow and headed inside.

~ 3 ~

The bright, fluorescent lighting of his bedroom hurt Alec’s eyes. His head was pounding, and he felt impossibly cold all over in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those poisonous words, of course; he was Alec Lightwood, and there were certain pressures that came with the name. This was, however, the first time that he had ever heard them hurled at him in his parabatai’s voice.

“Maybe your mother was right and your best just isn’t good enough!”

Alec closed his eyes, trying to block out the words that seemed to be imprinted on his mind. He and Jace had been at odds for a while, thanks to the damn redhead that had come along and messed everything up, but this was crossing a line Alec had once trusted him to never cross.

He was right.

The truth of Jace’s statement hurt more than the words themselves. Jace was right. He was the one who had failed. He had let Clary and Simon get taken by the Circle members. It was his failure, his mistake, his cross to bear. Alec let a small sigh escape. It seemed like he had far too many crosses to bear for only eighteen short years of life.

Alec was practically vibrating with emotion; he couldn’t sit still, no matter how hard he tried. He paced around the small space of his bedroom. Despite the lighting, darkness seemed to fold in on him from all sides. What was he doing? If he wasn’t good enough even for his siblings, for his parabatai, if he couldn’t manage to do anything right, then what the hell was he doing here? Did he have any purpose? If he did nothing but fuck up, then what the hell was the point?!

Alec whirled around and smashed his fist into the concrete wall of his bedroom. Immediately, excruciating pain shot through his hand. He groaned and dropped to his knees beside the fist-shaped indentation in the wall. He felt the energy bleeding out of him. He felt drained. He felt defeated.

Alec gazed down at his damaged hand. Bits of concrete clung to his misshapen fingers. The pain seemed to wrap itself around him, practically thrumming through his veins with every breath he took. It calmed him, centered him; it brought with it relief so undeniable that it made Alec’s chest ache.

A timid knock startled Alec from his thoughts, and he looked up at the door just in time to hear Clary’s voice. “Alec! Hey, Izzy said I should start learning how to be a proper Shadowhunter. Would you help me train?”

Alec felt his blood boil. After the day he’d had, the last thing in the world he wanted to do was help the same obnoxious redhead that had wormed her way into their lives and spun everything out of control. He stayed stubbornly silent.

An exasperated sigh came from the other side of the door, and then Clary’s voice again, slightly peeved: “Alec, I know you’re in there. Come on, open up!” A few seconds went by, and she added, “Please. You’re the best Shadowhunter here.”

“Why don’t you get Jace to train with you?” Alec called back bitterly. “I’m busy.”

“Jace wants me to train with you,” Clary insisted, and Alec felt something rise in his chest.

“Jace said that?” he replied incredulously.

“Yes,” Clary said. “I asked him first, and he told me I should go to you, that there was no one better.”

Alec felt a small blossom of hope unfurl in his heart. Maybe Jace hadn’t meant what he said before. Darkness still beckoned to him, and he had to fight back the urge to simply tell Clary to fuck off and leave him alone. Jace’s words still burned in the back of his mind, but the new words that Clary assured him had been said threatened to overtake them. Alec took a deep breath and let it out. If he could do nothing else right, he could at least make the redheaded girl into a halfway decent Shadowhunter.

Alec shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. He couldn’t train with Clary like this. He needed to be on top of his game, show her what a real Shadowhunter looked like. He couldn’t afford to be off, especially if Jace really thought he was the best one to train her.

Alec stood up and called out to Clary, “Fine.” He grabbed his stele from his desk and traced an iratze on his damaged hand. It wouldn’t heal it completely; multiple iratzes would have to be used for that. But it would push his fingers back into their proper place, thus hiding any evidence of his shortcomings to the excitable little girl outside.

Alec’s mouth tightened into a straight line. This way, the pain would still be there while they trained, as a reminder to himself of what he had on the line if he didn’t do well enough.

Clary knocked on the door again impatiently, and Alec hurried forward to throw it open. She took a step back in surprise and he smirked.

“Come on,” he said to Clary, striding past her towards the training room. “We have work to do.”

~ 4 ~

Alec turned down another dark street corner, weaving his way past piles of trash and dodging rats that scurried out in his path. The tears that he had been traitorously unable to keep from falling froze on his cheeks in the cold, and his bruised, bloody hands were numb around his bow.

He wasn’t sure where he was going, or even why he’d jumped off the roof of the Institute, other than to get away from Jace’s unwanted sympathy. Sympathy he didn’t deserve.

Alec’s hands tightened around his bow and he wished desperately for a demon to appear so he would have an excuse to feel that delicious pain again. A second later, however, his stomach rolled at the thought of demons. He remembered the reason he was on that roof in the first place.

The demon. Jocelyn.

Alec closed his eyes and bit his lip, hard. Another rat hurried past, and Alec had an arrow nocked in a flash, releasing it to fly at the rat. He swore as the arrow missed its target, coming to rest next to a trash bin a few feet to the left instead.

Alec couldn’t believe what he had done. He had let a demon in. He had killed Clary’s mother. He was the reason Izzy was hurt. He couldn’t save Jace from the City of Bones. He inhaled sharply. By the Angel, he’d killed Jace’s mother! The guilt crashed into Alec like a freight train and he stumbled under the weight of it.

The city of New York at night was really quite beautiful, and under any other circumstances, Alec might have been able to appreciate it. That night, however, the street lamps that usually filled him with comfort and security looked garish and were entirely too bright. The plastic Santa and the herd of lively reindeer that followed him in a shop window that might have brought a smile to Alec’s face any other night looked gaudy and fake. The world surrounding Alec was full of reminders of what he’d done; Jocelyn would never experience another Christmas, nor be able to appreciate the city at night any longer.

Alec swore and began to run.

Eventually, his feet carried him to the Brooklyn Bridge. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up there, or even if he consciously thought about his destination at all, but as he stared out into the dark water below, he found he didn’t care.

Without pausing to think about it, Alec climbed onto the ledge overlooking the stormy water and swung his feet around to the other side of the bridge, until his grip on the railing was the only thing keeping him from plunging two hundred feet down, down, down into the ice-cold water below.

Alec let out a shaky breath. He didn’t understand how Jace could even look at him after what he’d done. He couldn’t even look at himself. Alec stared into the dark abyss below him. He had taken a life. Taking his own seemed, in a way, almost like poetic justice.

Alec’s grip on the steel railing wavered, and he allowed himself to bask in the imagination of the act; of letting go, of falling, of being free. His bones ached with want and his mind screamed at him to do something, to make a decision, to give up and give in to his most shameful of desires.

Alec’s hands trembled on the railing. Tears filled his cool blue eyes for the second time that night and he blinked them away angrily. He knew what was holding him back. The smiles of Jace and Izzy, burnt into his memory from happier times. The warmth of Magnus’s hand in his own, thumb caressing his skin as he stumbled over an apology to the warlock for his behaviour towards him.

Alec shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. He didn’t deserve them, any of them. They were too good for him. He was selfish and a failure, never good enough; they were perfect, beautiful, amazing. He swallowed hard. His hands ached from gripping the edge of the bridge so tightly. It was too dark to see, but he was confident that his knuckles were turning white.

He could hear the rushing of the water below, and it calmed him. The water would be ice-cold, but he had been colder than that for months. It would be a welcoming demise.

Alec felt the grip he had on the railing begin to loosen. His numb, trembling fingers were cut and sliced by the sharp steel, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The inky black expanse of darkness stretched out in front of him as far as the eye could see. It looked so inviting.

Alec’s heart pounded with - what was that? Was it fear? No, that couldn’t be right. Alec wasn’t afraid.

Alec wasn’t afraid to die.

Was he?

A loud buzz from his pocket startled him from his thoughts. He dug his phone out of his pocket with cold, shaky fingers to look at the text he’d received. It was from Magnus.

M: Jace told me what happened. I’m worried about you. Come home, Alexander.

Alec felt his heart clench and all of the breath seemed to have been stolen from his body.

Come home.

He knew Magnus most likely meant ‘home’ as in the Institute or his family. But Alec took it to mean something so much different.

Alec took a deep breath, gazing out beyond the bridge. The darkness still called to him, but he had somewhere to be. Somewhere he could be.

With that, Alec shared one last look with the tempting, dark waters underneath the Brooklyn Bridge and began to run again.

It was only a few short, adrenaline-pumped minutes later when Magnus found Alec, sitting on his fire escape and wearing an expression that no one, not even Alec himself, could decipher.

~ 5 ~

Alec threw another cruel punch to the black punching bag in front of him, trying to drown out the thoughts that raged in his mind.

It was, inherently, his fault that Magnus had given up his magic. He’d done it for him. For his parabatai, to spare him the pain of losing the other half of his soul. And now the crushing weight of that decision had come back to haunt them both.

Fire burned in Alec’s veins, fueling the rage he used to beat the punching bag senseless. There hadn’t been a single moment after he learned what Magnus had done that he hadn’t blamed himself. A small, selfish part of him was almost happy that he and Magnus would be able to grow old together. That was before he saw the true extent of the damage being without his powers was causing Magnus.

Alec couldn’t remember the last time he felt guilt this strong; even the guilt of killing Jocelyn had been nothing compared to this. Muttering bitterly to himself, he realised that this was also the first time in quite a while that he’d turned to a punching bag instead of his boyfriend.

Magnus helped Alec. Any fool with a single working brain cell could see that. But it went beyond what any outsider could see. Magnus understood. He knew what it was like to feel trapped, as though pain and misery were the only ways out. Magnus had made him promise, after that fateful night on the balcony at his party, that he would come to him if it ever got ‘that bad’.

Alec’s heart ached with how much he wanted to keep that promise, because it was definitely ‘that bad’.

But he knew he couldn’t. Magnus was battling his own demons, and Alec was not going to do anything that would add more to Magnus’s plate.

So, instead, in a desperate effort to keep himself off the roof of the Institute, Alec had made his way to the training room and sought out a punching bag.

That was hours ago.

Alec vibrated with nervous energy as he threw punch after punch to the bag, which arced away from him due to the force of his blows. His hands were long past recognizable, and bruises circled his wrists. Blood seeped from his knuckles and stained the bag with every strike he made. His palms were littered with little marks from his nails pressing into the skin every time he closed his fists too tight.

Logically, he knew he should find Jace or Izzy, ask to go out on a hunt or watch a movie with them. They would help; they would give him whatever he needed. They would even sit and listen if he was willing to talk.

However, Alec also knew that he was much too proud and much too stubborn to even entertain that idea. His siblings had never seen him at his worst. He wasn’t going to subject them to that because the pain was too much for him to handle.

Alec rested his forehead against the punching bag, breathing hard. He was bone-tired and he felt more drained than he’d ever felt before in his entire life. The steps up to the roof were highlighted like a golden staircase in his mind, and his entire body trembled with the thought.

Magnus didn’t need him. Hell, he was the reason that Magnus had lost everything that made him who he was. He should hate him. Jace and Izzy would be fine. Simon and Clary, as well as his other friends, would eventually come to realise that the death of their hardass leader wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Alec took a deep breath, tried to remind himself of everything that Magnus had told him about these types of thoughts.

They aren’t true, Alexander.

He groaned and turned away, eyes stinging with an incoming onslaught of tears that he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood in order to stave off. He paced around the training room, running his hands through his hair. Blood made streaks in the black, but didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to regain control of himself.

Magnus needs me, he attempted to remind himself.

No, he doesn’t. You’re the reason he’s in this mess.

Alec whimpered uncharacteristically and sank down onto a bench, burying his head in his hands. He pulled at his hair, letting out a small sound of pain. When he looked up, his eyes fell on a seraph blade hanging on the wall next to him. He picked it up and studied it. A quick test with the tip of his finger proved that it was sharp. Very sharp.

Alec shuddered. He found himself unable to put it back where it belonged. Instead, he ran his fingers along the smooth sides of it and imagined what they would feel like jammed into his skin, bleeding the life out of him.

“Alec?” Alec jumped at the unexpected voice and looked up to see Jace standing in the doorway to the training room. His hair was messy with sleep and his shirt looked rumpled, like he’d just woken up. He wore black sweats and his eyes were filled with worry.

“What are you doing here?” Alec mumbled.

“I woke up and felt that something was wrong,” Jace said, gesturing to the place on his hip where Alec knew his parabatai rune was.

“Oh. I’m sorry for waking you. You can go now,” Alec said through shaky lips. His hands trembled on the seraph blade, which Jace was eyeing with worry. He clutched it tighter, not willing to let it go just yet.

“Like hell,” Jace responded fiercely, and he let himself into the training room, walking over to Alec until he was directly in front of him. He peered down at the older boy, his gaze concerned and inquiring. “What’s wrong, Alec?”

Alec ached to open his mouth and let all of his woes spill out, but he knew he couldn’t. Jace didn’t deserve to listen to all of those dark thoughts that he kept locked up inside himself, thoughts that only emerged in the form of violence and drunken midnight confessions to his boyfriend - the same boyfriend who was sleeping off his own intoxication back at the loft as they spoke.

So, instead, he said nothing.

Jace let out an exasperated sigh and reached for the seraph blade in Alec’s hands. Alec surrendered it reluctantly, watching as Jace hung it back on the wall in its place. Then, Jace took a seat next to Alec on the bench and gripped his parabatai’s shoulder.

“Alec, come on, man. I’m your parabatai. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Alec let a breath of air puff past his lips and fought against the urge tell Jace exactly how he was feeling. He clenched his bloody hands together in his lap, an action that did not go unnoticed by his male counterpart.

Jace inhaled sharply at the sight of Alec’s hands, which were even worse up close. He moved the hand that was on his shoulder to rest on one of Alec’s bruised wrists. He rubbed that hand back and forth lightly in a soothing motion.

“Please, Alec? I can feel how badly you’re hurting, and it’s hurting me. I just want to he - ”

“I really want to kill myself,” Alec blurted out. He immediately regretted it when he saw the horror slide onto Jace’s face. The hand that was on his wrist stopped its motion, and Jace rocked back on the bench, his mouth forming an involuntary ‘O’ shape.

“I - I - Alec, I - what the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Alec apologised. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that.”

“No, seriously, Alec, what the fuck?”

“Yeah, I know,” Alec replied tonelessly. “Pretty crazy, huh?”

“No!” Jace exclaimed. “Not crazy, serious! I mean, this is really fucking serious! How long have you felt like this?”

“...all my life?”

Jace looked aghast. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” Alec sighed. He’d already damned himself. He supposed he might as well give Jace the full story. “I’ve been having suicidal thoughts for a long time, Jace. Even when we were kids. This is just the first time you know about them.”

Jace’s eyes were wide with shock, and he seemed to be at a loss for what to say.

“You don’t have to tell anyone else,” Alec hastened to assure him. “This isn’t something that happens a lot. J-Just sometimes.”

“Sometimes is still really bad, Alec,” Jace replied.

“Like you’ve never thought about it before,” Alec scoffed.

Jace shook his head, his eyes huge and his expression solemn. “No. Never. Maybe it’s crossed my mind once or twice, but it was in and out faster than a vampire’s bike. I’ve never, you know, thought about it. Not ever.”

Alec didn’t know what to say to that. He focused his gaze on his lap once more, pinching the skin of his hands together. He slumped in his seat, biting his lip.

“Y-You know I’d be devastated if you did that, right?” Alec turned to face Jace, whose expression made tears rise to Alec’s eyes. “I mean, devastated doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’d be fucking wrecked, Alec. I don’t know that I would survive losing you.” His voice cracked, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I love you so much. Please don’t leave me, parabatai.” With that, Jace reached forward and pulled Alec into his arms for what was one of the tightest hugs Alec could ever remember receiving.

As Jace held him reverently in the brilliant light of the training room, as though he were a fragile piece of china that might break at any second, Alec thought that maybe the cure to the burning desire that lurked beneath his skin and waited in the corners of his mind to reappear when he was most vulnerable was the love of his family.

Later that night, when Jace had Alec in his bed, dressed in sweats and one of Jace’s old t-shirts, his phone buzzed. It was an apology text from Magnus. An apology text that was a paragraph long. Alec was so caught up in reading it and dealing with the onslaught of emotions that followed that he almost didn’t notice Jace tracing his stele over Alec’s wounds.

After the text had been replied to and Jace had gotten into bed himself and turned the lamp off with a whispered, “Goodnight,” to Alec, Alec wondered if perhaps he didn’t deserve all of the misery that he had always forced onto himself.

~ +1 ~

Alec twisted his head around to try and see what the ex-Circle members who had captured him were doing. He heard crashes and various sounds of things moving around, but he couldn’t see; it was too dark.

Beside him, Maia growled, her eyes glowing green in the darkness. Alec swore under his breath and wondered again how exactly they’d gotten into this situation.

It was a normal afternoon, for the most part; he had breakfast with Magnus in the morning and went out on a hunt with Jace and Izzy afterwards. Following that, he had returned to his office to begin muddling his way through his ever-growing stack of paperwork.

It was then that Maia had burst in unannounced, exclaiming that tensions between the vampires and werewolves had reached a tipping point, and she needed a mediator. Alec, only too happy to abandon his paperwork, readily agreed. When they returned to the Jade Wolf, however, they were immediately captured by four Shadowhunters with faded Circle runes, who dosed Maia with some sort of silver poisoning and knocked Alec out with a sedative gas.

When he came to, they were both tied to chairs in a nondescript warehouse that Alec was sure he’d never seen before. Boxes were piled around them and rats scurried back and forth between their feet. Dust lined every surface in sight, and old cans of paint gave the entire building a sickly odor.

The ex-Circle members from before emerged from another room. One was carrying a revolver filled with what were, Alec was sure, silver bullets. Another held a fiery branding tool that looked like it’d been raked over hot coals recently. Alec tried not to shudder. The third ex-Circle member was carrying a seraph blade, which he waved mockingly at Alec. Alec’s hands clenched into fists. Valentine’s still-loyal (even in his death) followers didn’t deserve to wield a seraph blade like a real Shadowhunter.

The fourth and final ex-Circle member strode forward carrying a heavy silver sword, which he leveled at Alec’s neck in a way that made it impossible to look sideways, nod, or move his head in any manner.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the ex-Circle member asked.

“No, so why don’t you enlighten us?” Alec grumbled. The ex-Circle member smirked.

“I thought not.” He sneered. “You’re a traitor to the Clave, engaging in Downworld affairs. Making friends with these people!” He spat. “Married to one of Lilith’s children.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Alec mumbled, unable to help himself.

The ‘leader’ of the group of Valentine’s loyalists glared at him, and Alec glared back, his gaze hard and unflinching.

“What does Maia have to do with this?” he asked. “She isn’t a Shadowhunter.” He knew the answer already, but he was trying to stall for time. If he could distract them long enough, Magnus would realise something was wrong when he didn’t show up for dinner and track him.

“She’s even worse,” another of the ex-Circle members spat. “She’s a werewolf. Disgusting creature.” He pressed the branding tool into her skin, and Maia howled in pain. Alec’s blood boiled and he fought against his bindings with all of his might.

The group member holding the seraph blade stepped forward at a gesture from the leader and pressed the tip of it to Alec’s skin. “We tricked you into believing that this werewolf here needed your help. Vampire glamours are surprisingly easy. We knew you’d come running to help the filthy creature. It was a perfect trap,” he gloated.

Alec sucked in a sharp breath as the ex-Circle member pressed the seraph blade into his skin, slicing his shirt open in one clean motion.

“Are you going to kill us or not?” he asked them, “because this is getting pretty boring.”

“Oh, we’re not anywhere close to finished yet,” the second member of the group said, earning him a sharp, reprimanding look from the leader.

“Yes, we are,” the leader said. “We don’t waste too much time with these things.” With that, he pressed the sword into Alec’s neck even deeper. “Any last words?”

A million thoughts raced through Alec’s mind. Izzy, Jace, Simon, Clary. Magnus...By the Angel, Magnus. His husband was waiting for him at home, probably making dinner. Alec had been pleasantly surprised after they were married to find out that Magnus preferred cooking in the traditional way to using magic.

Alec felt fondness creep into his heart. Magnus liked to hum when he cooked. Alec wondered what he was humming now.

Emotions rushed through Alec’s veins like the tide of the ocean crashing over rocks on a bank. Fear, love, ferocity, adoration, determination, fear - He was hit with a sudden, startling realisation: he wanted to live.

Alec Lightwood-Bane was many things. A brother, a parabatai, a leader, a husband. But suicidal was not one of them. Not anymore.

A plan of action formed in his mind and he chanced a quick glance to his left to see that Maia was eyeing him in the same manner. He nodded minisculely at her, and she nodded back. With that, Alec faced the ex-Circle member once again and gave him a choice finger. The ex-Circle member pressed the sword into his throat with enough force to make Alec scream, if the sword was anywhere other than right on his vocal chords. He shifted his gaze over to the werewolf beside him, and she winked.

Maia leapt into action, shifting into her wolf form with what little energy the silver poisoning hadn’t stolen from her. The member of the group holding the sword whirled around at the commotion and Alec seized his opportunity.

He shoved himself backwards with everything he had, knocking the sword from the leader’s hands with his bound ankles as he went. He crashed into the floor, his head slamming against the concrete, sending waves of pain shooting through his entire body.

Alec grabbed frantically for his phone, which had slid out of his pocket when he tipped backwards, and pressed #1 on his speed dial. Magnus picked up almost immediately, greeting him with a cheerful, “Nice to hear from you, Alexander. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Corner of 36th and Main,” he wheezed. He heard a whimper to his left, and he knew the window of time Maia had created for him was about to close. “Warehouse. Hurry.” Alec heard the click of the call being disconnected, and he peered up through bleary eyes at the ex-Circle member who had held a sword to his throat before. His hands were stained with blood and Alec felt a jolt of panic shoot through him. He could no longer hear Maia.

The distinctive whoosh of a portal rushed through the warehouse, along with choked sounds of surprise from the ex-Circle members. Alec’s breath caught in his throat at the telltale tingle of Magnus’s magic. His husband was here. He’d gotten the message.

Alec felt his bonds snap free, and he righted himself just in time to see Magnus wrapping a magical rope around two of the loyalists’ necks, choking them. Alec sent a roundhouse kick to the leader in front of him, who was still holding the sword. He went down with a choked wheeze and an attempt to pull Alec with him.

“Do you surrender yourself to the authority of the Clave?” Alec shouted.

“Never!” the leader called back. He struggled underneath Alec, trying to get a hit in anywhere he could. Alec pried the sword from his grasp and ran it through his abdomen.

Magnus shouted, “Alexander!” and Alec threw him the sword without looking. He knew Magnus well enough to know what he needed, what that tone of voice meant. Alec’s gaze was on Maia’s crumpled form. He raced to her side as Magnus killed one of the ex-Circle members in his hold, cuffing and knocking out the one that had decided to surrender for Alec to deal with later. The final ex-Circle member laid next to Maia, his throat ripped out.

Magnus crouched next to Alec and began to work, healing what he could of Maia’s wounds. Alec watched in a daze as the burn from the branding tool disappeared and the long cuts across her face and arms from the battle closed up under Magnus’s ministrations.

“She’ll have to go to the Praetor for the silver poisoning,” he said when he had finished. “I know someone there. I’ll have her treatment expedited.” With a wave of his hand, Magnus conjured a portal and took Alec’s hand in his own. “Come on.” He lifted Maia with his magic and they disappeared into the portal to deliver her to the Praetor Lupus.

When they returned, Alec transported the remaining ex-Circle member back to the Institute, where he was thrown into a holding cell. Jace and Izzy appeared as Alec was making his way to his office.

“Are you alright?” Izzy cried, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Magnus called and told us what happened. By the Angel, Alec.”

“I’m fine, Iz,” Alec said, smiling at her. “Promise.”

Jace pressed his forehead to Alec’s, something the very first parabatai had done to comfort each other centuries ago, when Izzy retreated. “Glad you’re okay, parabatai.”

Alec said nothing, but he squeezed the back of Jace’s head in reassurance. I’m here. I’m okay.

Later that night, after Magnus had tended to Alec’s injuries and fussed over him until Alec demanded he stop, Magnus and Alec sat together on the couch in a comfortable silence. Alec curled into Magnus’s side and buried his face in the warlock’s shoulder. Magnus’s deep, throaty chuckle reverberated down Alec’s spine, and he sighed in contentment.

This was how it was supposed to be.

“Magnus?” he said, peering up at his husband, whose glamour was down. Alec felt a rush of affection for the man in front of him, the man that kept his gleaming yellow cat eyes so hidden from everyone else. Magnus hummed in response, threading his fingers through Alec’s hair.

“I want to live,” Alec said suddenly, and with so much force behind it that he surprised himself.

Magnus, however, didn’t seem surprised at all. He fixed Alec with a blinding smile and kissed his lips tenderly.

“And so you will.”

Somehow, though it was the simplest response Magnus could have offered him, it was exactly what Alec needed to hear. 

[mimiplaysgames]

And There Are Storms We Cannot Weather (Ch. 1)

Pairing: Terranort x Anti-Aqua Rating: M Word Count: 4,457

Summary: If light won’t give Aqua her family back, she’ll use darkness to free them instead. There’s just one problem: him.

Read on AO3

A/N: Happy TWO-YEAR fic anniversary to me!! I’m releasing this a week ahead of the big day, I was just too excited to keep it to myself. This is such a rarepair (strangely? WHYYYY) and it’s exhilarating and liberating to get on something different! It’s an Enemies to Friends to Lovers fic and it’s such a scary thing to work on. I need to thank my two betas: @steadyknight who is my sharper edge and will push me to my limits, and @lyssala who is my soft embrace and will keep me hopeful. Together, they balance this piece out and without them, I would not have the courage to post this. Thank you both so much for your insight, encouragement, and critiques. ;-; ;-; ;-;

~*~*~*~*~

Laced With Nitroglycerine

If she asks anyone in the world whether she exists, they’d say no - they don’t remember her, after all. They don’t even know why she disappeared in the first place, nor do they want to.

At least, no one today remembers her. She led a whole life a long time ago, and she spent twelve years recounting those memories like they were printed in a book, word for word. Each one of her loved ones has a text of their own, and if she had her way, she’d have them all on a shelf along with hers, together.

But there are empty spots on her shelf now. One is dead.

Another is sleeping, and she can’t retrieve him without the right key, unless she risks losing her mind.

The last one is unaccounted for.

So she traces her steps like she’s reading backwards, and watches people from places they don’t notice: within the cracks in between cobblestone, where they step on her; by the dumpster, where they abandon waste all over her, never realizing they’re burying her; under the storm drain, where they don’t bother to look; inside of closets, where they’re too preoccupied to peek.

After hours of eavesdropping useless conversation, she decides staying in Radiant Garden isn’t worth her trouble. She leaves, heading nowhere until she’s distant enough to wonder where she belongs. 

Nowhere is a wasteland, with only a graveyard. And a man.

When the man sees her coming, he’s delighted to see her again, the way a child imagines a demon would be: lips curled, showing both rows of teeth, and a hungry glare where she’s the feast.

He looks the same, but he doesn’t, golden eyes ambered and deep which pierce through her. His hair is whiter than the sun - there’s no denying his presence, even yards away in the middle of an unmarked Keyblade burial site.

"All worlds begin in darkness, and all so end. The heart is no different - such is its nature. In the end, every heart returns to the darkness whence it came."

These are his first words to her, rich and smooth like the hum of a distant earthquake.

His glee cackles, an indication that he is no different from the very last moment she's seen him and that he has changed in every single way imaginable.

“I fell into darkness for you,” she says, her voice icy.

“Come again?”

She doesn’t lend a second for thought. He will not play dumb today. He will take responsibility.

Gliding across the sand, Master Aqua whips out a Keyblade - tacky blue slamming against ornate silver, her ugly Keyblade bouncing off of his as he knocks her back. 

He sneers when he glances at her weapon. “Interesting choice for plunder.”

She grunts. She shrieks. She won’t give him a chance to talk (who cares what she stole?). Aqua slams her Keyblade against his, again and again and again. He’s going to take responsibility for leaving her behind. She will make it hurt.

He parries, sliding his blade up against hers to throw her off balance. Then he steps forward, and disappears in a puff of smoke. Pops back up, too close for comfort and erasing the space between them.

Close enough to grab her. Enough to take a faint whiff of cologne every time he takes a massive swing of his heavy Keyblade.

She dodges, floats, kicks dirt in his face - anything to break the air between them but still he comes charging at her, chest open for a strike and yet he gets too near to allow her a clear shot.

Like he knows she wants to. He knows what his weaknesses are and leaving his body exposed isn’t one of them. 

Damn him.

They trade blows, metal to metal in beats and uppercuts, always blocked, clanking away and making enough noise to wake the dead. 

Then without warning, he lurches back to keep his distance, strutting her in circles like he’s the predator. 

If that’s the case, then he truly cannot grasp what he’s dealing with.

“Following ghosts from your past, are you?” he says, keeping his Keyblade flexed. “No, I am mistaken. You walk among them.”

“You’re not who I’m looking for.”

“On the contrary,” he coos, “I am.”

Digging into his pocket, he pulls out a metal and glass trinket, dipped in a color bolder than the earth beneath his feet. 

"Give it back," she growls, as quiet and collected as a feline stalking prey.

The warm-orange Wayfinder dangling in display catches the sun when he wiggles it, before he clasps the entire thing in his large hand. He shoves it deep into his pocket like he's making a show out of taking something precious away from her.

“It is mine,” he says with a smile as sarcastic as a snarl.

Part of her should have known. The Realm of Darkness is not the only monster with teeth, and the moment she freed herself left her exposed to all that is hungry in the outside world.

When she steps forward, he steps back, his grin brimming like he’s excited. She throws herself against him for another hit. 

He replies by playing coy, using switch and bait tactics to avoid every one of her attacks until she tires out. She's smart enough to realize it but she's too angry to care, telling her body that it can finally rest when he’s stopped breathing.

A lurch back when she lunges, a swerve when she's too close - he blends in and out of darkness to put distance between them just so she wastes her time catching up. He’s amused, beckoning her to come near with a finger. Come, is what he’s saying when he does this, I’m over here. 

It's only when she starts getting furious, when darkness starts smoking off her skin, that he finally loses interest in taunting her.

She's used to attacks that stun; she's dodged and blocked against them all her life, but his have an extra kick, an extra surge of that desperate need to be stronger, faster, better, bigger.

Power is seductive and he's addicted to the girth of his muscles, into the way he slams his Keyblade onto hers, in the way his shoulders flex and tense with gusto when he pushes hard enough to make her stumble, in his prowess with dark magic that allows him to be too fast for his size.

He's a cheater, put simply. He cheats the laws of physics when he teleports, when he launches himself across the field like a bulldozer, when he floats around and mocks how hopelessly she chases him. 

"So unrefined," he says about her flurries and fireworks, her ghosting and her flashy waves of purple. "You are deafening the desires of your heart," he continues like he's giving advice to a boring child, his posture suddenly lax like he has nothing to fear.

"I listen to it." She doesn't. It's abandoned her, silent as a weep when she turns to herself for answers.

"Clearly.”

"Shut up."

It's not like she doesn't know how her heart feels - angry and bitter enough to propel her forward, to make that Keyblade glow darkly and launch fireballs, blinding him until she follows through and meets him face to face, Keyblade to Keyblade, grinding and sparking and trembling. There's enough hatred and misery mixed in their magic to pool darkness together, a mass so dense it could stain stardust with black ink.

"You will do better by paying attention," he smirks, and she wants to punch it out of his face. His eyes scan her own, so deep and slick in gold that it reminds her of what she truly is: the same as him.

She spent many foolish years indulging in fantasies of what she'd make with their bodies once they were both reunited - making war was far from it.

"Give in," he says smoothly, their Keyblades shaking by this point. "Let your heart speak for itself."

She nearly spits at him. How dare he tell her how to do anything?

"Yes." He approves of her reaction, like he's getting off on it.

She’ll make him regret speaking to her like that.

Dropping to her knees and sweeping with a kick, she trips him, disappearing from his line of vision and leaving him stranded with nothing but dead Keyblades. 

Aqua doesn't have much to say with words anymore. Her phantoms would pull their weight with that kind of hard work.

They creep from the Keyblades, stalking him until they finish their lap and vanish. Meant to be disorienting, they're a message, a filter for her pain so that someone out there knows. So that someone listens because dammit, she's been talking to herself for too many years.

"You left me to rot alone--"

"I waited so long for you to come get me--"

"I only wanted to go home--"

"I don't know what I did all this for--"

"Did you not care about me enough?"

“Traitor…”

"You will drown with me--"

But the bastard is not intimidated. He strides, barely giving them much of a glance as he rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. He's not moved by her words when he should be.

So she slithers, comes right behind him for a direct hit but he's suave and self-assured, blocking her with the force of a boulder.

It's hard to say what catches his attention, what with her shrieking when she misses such an easy target. His eyes drink her face like he's reading her, down her ink-stained arms to her pauldron and ripped sleeves, like he's undressing them.

"What a wasted opportunity," is all he has to say.

He counters - three grounded steps forward with furious swings before a horrendous slam to the ground, darkness lapping at her face and tossing her backward. She stumbles over her feet, her still-foreign Keyblade forsaking her grip.

Aqua spits dry sand out of her mouth; this place is out of her element. He stands in her way, proud and reserved, brushing hair out of his face. Seeing him do that makes her blood boil and her mood miserable.

"It is not a wasted effort, however," he says, towering her, enjoying how he's looking down on a woman on her knees, clutching her chest and gasping for breaths. "What power would you hold if you simply-"

"What do you care?"

"I can offer you a better existence," he says, one hand at his waist, his Keyblade not fading away in the other. "Something with more class than a beggar in the desert."

"Who says I'm begging?"

"You are a commodity, a great asset."

“For what?” She scoffs. “To be a Seeker of Darkness? Summon Kingdom Hearts? None of that is my problem.” Looking him in the eye, even from the ground, makes her feel tall. “I’d rather swallow acid than stand next to you.”

He's smug. "Your heart is weaker than I expected, fleeing the inevitable like a wounded creature."

"It is not weak," she says, emphasizing the sharpness of that last word with a tisk.

She realizes she’s good at this - pretending to know what she’s about even though she wonders if she's truly gone apathetic. 

What she wants right now is to scratch that smile off his face. "Neither is Terra's."

"Terra?" he asks like he has forgotten who that is. He searches the horizon, his lips curling with captivation when he remembers a game he's won. "Terra yearns for my confidence."

Whatever ego-rubbing he's feeding off of, it emanates in clouds of smoke licking the skin of his fingers. "Terra desired strength.” He holds a fist in the air, flexing the forearm. “Witness how powerful he is now. You can have the same, whatever you desire if you learn to control it."

She scoffs, rolls her eyes.

"You know nothing of the darkness,” he says.

Nothing? No. “I am darkness.”

She screams. She knows plenty, years' worth. Master Aqua hates darkness. Master Aqua reeks of it.

They come, hundreds of Heartless in reply, desperately crawling over each other like they will each die if they're too slow.

She hears them, trickling like raindrops... help help help help help.

At first, he's proud, waving his arm in grandeur like he’s announcing their arrival. He’s expecting they're here to be used as his example. 

Yet he's the one insinuating she knew nothing. What a fool.

It's delicious to see him hesitate when they don't answer him.

Aqua laughs, twisted enough to remind her he's not the only one who's changed. "They're mine," she informs him.

With her horde, she's finally mutable, melting into their group when they save her, ebbing with their movements.

Until the man with Terra’s face is surrounded by a tornado of monsters. Until they are face to face again, and he's shaking to push her off of his Keyblade.

Her claw grips the armor on his left arm and he braces himself as she scratches the metal.

“Smile at me like you used to,” she commands, bringing her face closer to feel his breath.

He doesn’t obey. His teeth are locked in a snarl, his eyes occasionally darting to see if his blind spots are in danger - not in fear, but in fury. 

Refusing her is the wrong answer. "What I want with all my heart is to take you back," she tells him with savor in her voice. "I swear, no matter where you are, I will be close. I will make sure you are never too far away from me. I will fix you."

He throws a mean glare before he knocks her off and teleports out of the eye of the storm, forcing her to open her Heartless barrier open and chase after him. 

Now he gets serious. He slams the ground with his Keyblade, and the dirt under him ripple like the deep sea in the middle of night. From there, he floats, casting a spell, a summon - a Guardian of sorts - and the colors start weaving shadows.

Aqua and her Heartless have a heart-to-heart link. She doesn’t need to say anything for them to know what she wants. They leave her, twisting in a tidal wave with the intent to crash into him directly while she deals with his new threat on her own.

The shadows underneath her feet converge and slither. They are cold and slimy, the touch of something lurking underwater brushing against her legs.

Bursting out of the ground, it grabs her by the leg and thrashes her around like a toy. The momentum of it makes her dizzy, and she limps in its hold. 

She shivers at the sight.

Empty yellow eyes, but angrier. Mouth taped by bandages like it’s injured. An empty shell in the middle of its chest, like it feels less than a regular Heartless. It’s huge and broadchested, and the first thing that comes to mind is the exact moment when she first met this creature. It hurt.

It hurt her. 

Disappearing from its grip in a puff of smoke, Aqua comes at it from above, Keyblade in hand. 

Her Heartless know to circle back away and pummel into the beast from behind. It takes a direct barrage of her grunts and strikes with her Keyblade - and her very kicks - to its face, until she’s too pissed off to have mercy and she starts coming at it with her worst blasts and explosions. 

She’s found the man’s weakness - this creature. It raises its hands to cover its face from another one of her surging powerballs when the man throws himself in between, blocking with a barrier. Juggling both her and the tidal wave, he knocks out her attacks with large shockwaves while commanding the Guardian to deal with the Heartless - blast by violent blast, creep by unnerving creep. 

The Guardian hides and stalks her Heartless, targeting the ones in the middle: the ones less aggressive and are only there to fill numbers. The lost. The confused. The children.  

Each time it leaps from the ground and takes a hard strike, Heartless are ticked off, lost to nothingness forever in just one shot. 

Aqua gasps.

Every Heartless vanquished is a sting somewhere, like a knotted string pulled from the surface of her skin until it cuts off her circulation. Then it snaps - from her back, her bicep, her face, her own heart, like a slap of rubber. Each and every one.

They’re gone. They’ve suffered enough crawling around the Realm of Darkness, and now this. It’s not fair.

Aqua calls them nearer to her. Together, they are sturdier, and she pets one of her Heartless - the youngest yet the oldest one of the group - to make sure it’s alright. 

Man and beast teleport far enough away to add yards between. His shoulders heave with breath, and he staggers ever so slightly before straightening, like he has to remind himself that there’s something to be proud of. 

The Guardian is dismissed, and the man opens up his arms and bows to her. 

Stalemate. Surrender. It doesn’t matter. All she feels is pain when she promised herself after she left the Realm of Darkness that she’d never feel it again.

“Equal powers,” he says, hiding his defeat in his smile, “equal strengths. Equal truths.” She doubts that. “You are a worthy enough adversary, and yet I’ve bided enough of my time on you.”

He turns over his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” she spits, her knees shaking. 

It’s uncanny for an enemy to expose his back - traditionally his weakest spot - but he doesn’t consider it. 

“You came here looking for ghosts, were you not?”

“It has nothing to do with you.” 

“The graveyard is the perfect place to find one,” he says, waving his hand to beckon her. “This one is exactly who you’re looking for.”

Whether he’s taunting her or amusing himself, it’s easy to tell but hard to differentiate. 

“You’re lying.”

“Suit yourself.” He continues on his way like he’s talking to himself. “The departed never linger.”

He doesn’t wait for her to catch up. Is he telling the truth? He’s smart, she’ll give him that. Smart and obnoxious, but he can’t afford to boldly take her to a trap.

If he pisses her off, she can finish the job. He’s weak enough now, and he should know this. 

Aqua follows, her Heartless obedient and staying close. She eyes his shoulders, tracing the muscles to his spine. The most vulnerable spot is right at the brain stem. 

He’s so much the same, and yet his stride has more bravado, more of a direction of where to go, like he’s solved all of his problems that plagued him in his young life. 

“Tell me,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, “how did you escape the Dark Realm?”

Aqua doesn’t answer. It’s not his right to know.

“Peculiar,” is all he has to say about her silence.

She stops. “You’re wasting my time-”

“Here.” He gestures with his arm toward a blunder of rocks and boulders that have recently been blown off from a plateau high above. 

Some of the pieces gleam in the harsh sunlight. 

“This…” she hisses. 

Armor. Chunks of it, sliced and abandoned in gold and red, next to a humongous, dull Keyblade laying flat on the ground. A scrap heap instead of a memorial, like all the rest. 

She feels the man watching her as she gapes at the rubble before her.

“A lingering spirit,” he explains, his voice laced with a touch of condescension. “But no more. He spent far too long waiting for repentance until he was depleted of his will.”

She glares at him, golden eyes to golden eyes. His lashes are still luscious and as long as ever, lips slightly chapped as they always are. His lips are the same, but the smile is ugly. It twists, mischievous, like he understands exactly who’s responsible for this mess.

There is so much anger unspoken for but she doesn’t need words to tell him. Her fingers twitch, ready to slash him across the chest... but she’s drawn back by the very armor that needs her, pulling her heart heavily towards the ground. She doesn’t want to look at it but she knows it’s there, waiting for her to take care of it. 

She can’t leave it now.

So she stares, waiting for the man to cower in her sight, refusing to be the first to step down. 

But he notices what she’s trying to hide, and smirks. “You’re bound by his chains.”

His words pump her blood, her heart banging in her ears.

“Be wary of dead weight,” he says softly, his eyebrows pulsing upward. “Tied to your ankles, it will make you sink.”

“I know enough about drowning,” she quietly says. 

He cocks his head, leaning forward. “There are depths you still cannot fathom.” 

She inches closer to him, and can feel his breath on her lips. “We’ll see how hard you struggle to swim,” she whispers. “From now on, every breath you take is a gift from me.”

Something flickers in his eyes, and he smiles to himself. 

Straightening up, he leaves her for silence, taking a step into a portal of darkness until it zips up behind him. 

She hates him. Hates him for that stupid smirk he’s always wearing. Hates how good he is at reading her so easily, for knowing at first glance that she’d stay behind with the rubble when he turned over his shoulder.

She hates him for not letting her grieve her losses in peace. 

The Realm has made good work of numbing her for twelve years, and now she takes a piece of it with her. Any surge of emotion - despair, nostalgia, yearning, wishing, and yes, even love - fades, leaving her stuck between yelling and not caring. Escaping the Realm should have been triumphant - not really deserving of applause, but it should have been the most important moment of her long life.

Standing here, in the midst of this mess, she wonders if waiting has been pointless all along. 

Spurts of Heartless crawl toward the armor - they’re curious, as much as she is shaken by the sight. They’re attracted to what she feels, and because this armor makes her feel something, their interest spikes.

“Don’t touch,” she commands, and they squirm away.

First she takes the helmet under her arm. With the other, she grabs the torso by the neck rim, dragging it behind her. A few yards away is an indent carved into the plateau, right under an outcrop. It’s cooler there because the sun can’t touch it. 

She takes laps, bringing in gauntlets and leg braces, all by herself. Finally, she drags that enormous Keyblade through the dirt, leaving a trail. It’s bigger than she remembers.

In the cave, she assembles the hips upright on the ground, right against the rock. Balances the torso on top. Lays the legs in front. Tries to attach the arms, but they simply fall. 

Then the helmet. Sand spills out of the folds. One of its tall ears is chipped halfway, among other missing bits that tell her it was bashed in the face. Its visor is cracked, the damage running deep when she traces it with her finger. She imagines a pair of deep blue eyes behind the glass, but all she sees in the foggy reflection is her morphed face, gold eyes staring back.

“You broke before I did,” she says spitefully. Then the spite fades away, just like everything else. “I waited a long time for you, and…”

And it looked like it waited a long time for someone, too. 

No matter how many times she wills her Heartless away, they always come back. Like puppies, they want to know what’s next. They just don’t have the words to ask. 

“He’s not too far, don’t worry,” she says. Whether she’s saying it to her Heartless or to the armor, she doesn’t think too hard about it. “But this comes first.”

She balances the helmet on top of the torso, taking extra time with it. The last step is to lean the Keyblade next to the suit, against the rock. She’d rather have it here than among the nameless Keyblades out there - at least this can be a proper shrine, something to tell strangers who walk by that this was assembled with care. That someone who is nameless to them has been loved by those who remember him. 

It’s better than the treatment she’s gotten, and she’s okay with that. 

There’s still so much to fix. 

Years of study have taught her that hearts are connected, and if a friend is in danger, she’d feel it. 

Now that she’s spent enough time fighting with this version of a man, she can replay how his twisted heart beats (morphed, melted? Something is off with the way his heart thuds). 

He’s traveling farther with each second, landing in a world that’s relatively close. He’s not in danger, not in the slightest, but it’s impressive how darkness makes it so much easier to track him than light could ever do for her. This is exactly why Heartless have an upper edge over people, lusting after hearts all the time, and she can almost feel it beating as though she has a hand over his chest.

Stepping out into the sun, Aqua and her pets are the only shadows in a world where nothing can escape its glare. A brighter light creates a darker shadow, and therefore the desert makes her the most powerful being here. Puffs of darkness spit up with dust with every step she takes, and Aqua conjures her own dark portal. It won’t be hard to find him.

There are no rules when dealing with a madman.

But he’s not the only one.

[kazeofthemagun]

Worth of Wolves

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

[First meeting with Silver Storm. The very beginnings of the cursed one’s untold legend. Pre-series, expanded backstory drabble. 7.5k words.]

[cw: blood, war, death, child abuse, child death, trafficking, child slavery mention]

Day of the Ox. Fifth morning hour.

Windaria was waking to life. Like an animal in its own right, stirring with the earliest light. Having rested the previous day, it was time to set to work, let sleep-heavy blood flow faster, open eyes behold a new dawn. Much needed to be done before the first hour of the Sun rendered the cobblestone streets a scorching deathtrap, a forced halt in the bustle of the city. Then, when evening came, once again would the diligent animal of the city toil in blood and sweat.

He awakened along with the very first rays of morning. A boy, eleven or perhaps twelve cycles old. Ask him his exact age, and he would not answer.

In fact, the boy without a name seldom answered to anyone. The Land of the Winds was a harsh nation, prideful like the eternal golden sand. The Winds only ever danced across the heavens, paying little heed to those that dwelled in the dirt. The worm could only reach up, curiosity brought on by rain, rearing a mulch-soft head to gaze at what lay above.

Those who lived below quickly learned to keep their head down. And their hood up. A distant rustle of metal plates and the sound of kivani hooves beating against stone saw the boy's left rise instinctively to pull down the worn fabric that sheltered his features. In his right he held a small, rusted knife. All the polishing in the world would not absolve that wretched thing, reddish-umber patterns clinging closely to the place its handle met metal.

He was not alone here. Blue eyes swept slowly across the church hall, meeting a pair of orange staring back from the half-shade.

"Maru?"

Less a name, more a form of address by necessity. After over a year of living together, it became quite awkward to only call the nameless boy precisely that.

It was one of the rare moments the ever-sealed lips of his moved, stretching out into an almost shy smile, as though the smallest softness came difficult to a creature of sharp edges and hard shells. The persona of silence he had built - it protected him. The animal that made less noise was less likely to be hunted.

"Ïsta."

The foreign name rolled off his tongue in a hoarse voice - one as rusted as the knife he now carried. She smiled, and despite her sunken-in cheeks, it could well be the sweetest smile in the world.

Maruku - the boy branded wolf - lowered his gaze to stare wordlessly at the bandage wrapped over the girl's right hand. The rag was tattered from use, yellowed and reddened in places where friction had sheared skin. She noticed his attention, hiding the injury from sight.

"Hand. How?" There was worry in his tone as he spoke in somewhat broken Lahriktaarese. Granted, considering the Temple had conquered and enforced its ways upon most of the world, the language could well be simply called Windarian. "Does it bleed, again?"

"A little. But I'll be fine, I can still work." Ïsta replied. Despite their shared predicament, fiery amber eyes were as full of passion as ever. Even so, there was a sadness and worry behind them, a maturity so uncharacteristic of a ten cycle old child. "I worry, Maru. Worry that Yani..."

The other children had begun to stir as well, some cries erupting here and there as an old, overworked Priestess of Soil worked to soothe them. In total, there were about ten orphans between two and seven cycles of age. War raged on in the south, bringing refugees to the small merchant-ran city of Tonnavrel. The Wind Warriors of the capital reinforced the army on the front, hoping to secure yet more territory from the struggling nation that had for so long denied their religion. It was clear the Keep Beyond the River would not hold.

Most of the immigrants were either executed for heresy, sold into slavery or converted, still doomed to a life of poverty. Age hardly mattered. In the eyes of Lahriktaar, the people from Beyond the River may as well be animals; Only good for servitude.

Though officially of Lahriktaarese faith, some local temples still believed in the true path of Soil and goddess Alaeyra, the kind bringer of rain. Like rain, they worked to mend the land. All spirits were equal in the Soil - deserving of equal chances at life.

Ïsta was a name from Beyond the River. In the open, she went by another name, one more palatable to the Wind cult. Though she had lost both her father and her mother, her true name was a dearest keepsake. Maruku idly squeezed the wooden clan sigil he wore around his neck, and rose.

"Church is poor. No food, again." He sighed, moving to aid the priestess with the rest of the kids. Loving words and gentle touch could only help the starving so much.

They spent a few hours helping around, both with the refugee children and the building's upkeep. Through washing the tiles and preparing the main chamber for morning mass, they earned what little coin the poverty-stricken priests could spare. Most of it was spent on sustenance, leaving very little to replace the torn clothes they wore. Even that was in short supply with the Wind armies' march south, stripping Tonnavrel of both resources and manpower. The lifeblood of economy ran ill with the plagues carried by war.

Windaria was a land rotten to the very bedrock by ceaseless slaughter. The boy's young mind found it all hard to understand. Politics were a distant, hazy shadow he could hardly hope to grasp when he still sometimes struggled with forming correct sentences. Such was his unfortunate fate after being neglected throughout his earliest years, kept hidden by the Scribe. Only after his reluctant safekeeper’s death did the outside world crash down upon him with all the weight of total indifference.

It had still been better than being left for dead at one cycle old. In the end, he had survived, and met people who looked at him with more kindness than malice.

And for once, the nameless wolf's distant eyes learned to smile. Even when he and Ïsta held Yani's tiny hand as he passed on from illness. Not even half their age, a sickly forgotten son of yet another fallen warrior. It was the best someone like him could do. He could not heal him, for he was useless. Nobody could, when even Alaeyra herself failed. But he could sit there, and attempt to do what Ïsta did best. Comfort.

Even as their statues adorned the walls, chiseled stone bodies at an arm's reach, the gods were so awfully absent.

Ïsta was crying. Now that the others could not see her, emotions flowed freely past ever-strong eyes. He sat with her, unable to do the same. Was there something wrong with him? His heart wept yet his eyes could not. More than sorrow, he felt that strange gnaw again. An insidious gnawing sensation that made the bones itch, brows furrow and teeth grit, fangs on display. The feeling of someone exposed to injustice from his earliest days - to the point it was all he had ever known.

It made him angry. So, so angry.

"Maru..." She sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress. It was all she could say. Small hands dug into the dark fabric of the wolven boy's tattered poncho. It was alright. She could cry here, into his darkness, and he would hide her tears from the very world. A weak swallow. "When you finally get out of here, what will you do?"

Ïsta wanted to be a painter. She always said so. When she asked him, he never answered. But this time, he knew. He knew what he wanted to be.

He had seen it, that day. During the annual celebrations, when the military rolled through the city, adorned with ceremonial capes. The weapons they carried were meant to bring death, but in that moment, he was captivated by their gleam and the verses that carried on the Winds like a song of fire itself.

The creature they had called - it was named, "Phoenix." And it was magnificent.

If he were the Phoenix, so brazen and strong, he could eradicate the evil that poisoned the land. He could take flight on blazing wings and burn away the rot and corruption. He could stand against those foul beasts that enslaved children and render them all into ashes, melting accursed chains to usher the wronged towards new dawns. He could become the Sun and shine with kindness, not cruelty.

He wanted... above all, he wanted to be strong.

He was sick of being weak. Sick of being powerless.

"I'll become a warrior." Oceanic blue met amber orange. His right hand found and squeezed the hilt of the knife hidden beneath dark fabric. "I'll... fight. But now, I go." He pulled up his hood once again and walked towards the entryway. "I'll get food."

And like a passing shadow of a hawk, he was gone. A wide-eyed Ïsta wiped the last of her tears and yelled good luck.

The wounds on her hand had opened again, soaking dirtied rags.

---------

Seventh morning hour.

The thief had found himself a target.

Blue eyes observed an elderly Windarian as she opened the back door to the bakery, bringing in crates. There was a muffled hiss of pain as she attempted to lift one, and a wrinkled hand rested on the woman's spine. She remained bent for a little while, massaging her aching back. Everyone in town was simply trying to get by, small businesses hit especially hard by the nearby war. So, too, was he.

It was not personal, never was. A few pieces of pastry would help feed the starving children and the owner would not go hungry herself. Deep down, Maruku hated stealing, but he had little choice in the matter. It was best to desensitize himself.

Especially for things like him, it was a dog eat dog world. And today, the dog had its sights set on as much fresh bread as he could carry.

He waited for the woman to engage in a conversation outside before sneaking behind a barrel, then slipping inside. The smell hit him first, mouth watering in an instant as he practically sprinted towards a fresh batch laid out upon the closest shelf. Good, good - the boy snatched several large loaves, cramming them beneath his poncho, under an arm. He had what he came for - it was time to escape. Blue orbs scanned the room, weighting the pros and cons of using the back door again instead of the proper entrance.

The owner and the man she was talking to were still there, chatting idly about something. Maruku leaned against the wall, listening intently and gauging distance. Yes, they had moved closer. They were now standing close to the wall on the right side of the rear entrance, and the chances they could spot him were high. On the other hand, using the main door meant he would run right out into the crowd - someone was bound to notice his unlawfully-acquired cargo and Tonnavrel had little tolerance for criminals. Especially serial offenders. He swallowed, then decided to peek out the way he came. Just a little.

As his shit luck would have it, the man was looking directly at him. "HEY!"

All rhyme and reason to high hell. He bolted in the opposite direction.

He made it through the storage and leapt over the counter, scattering neatly stacked coin. The man was hot on his trail, fit of body and jumping the counter without much effort. Oh gods, gods - the wolf's small heart drummed loud as thunder as it thrashed wildly against ribs. The chase. In that moment, his insult of a nickname proved hardly accurate. He was no wolf. He was a rabbit, and the man behind him was the predator with gnashing teeth. The people gathered on the street gasped.

Run, rabbit, run. Your life could well depend on it.

He felt a hand clasp over and yank the back of his poncho - pulling down his hood and spilling the bread over pavement. Blue eyes went wide, feral. He had a knife in hand. A rusty shard of metal, the only claw to his name.

The man yelled something, snatching the fabric at his chest and lifting him into the air. Thin legs kicked hard at his captor's stomach, to no avail. He had a knife in hand.

He had a knife.

An ungodly sound, halfway between a hiss and a growl - and in a flash, the shabby blade found its way into the adult Windarian's eye.

The screaming was horrible. He was released in an instant, scrambling to collect at least two of the lost pastries before running like a mad wind, bloodied metal clutched in a vicelike grip of terror. He fucked up. He fucked up. This time, he fucked up. Oh gods, gods. Phoenix..! If only the Phoenix could save him now.

The shrill wail attracted the attention of a patrolling soldier. More yelling, and a set of armored footsteps followed. It was closing in, fast. Agile as the boy was, he was weak from hunger and his legs were still short. It was only a matter of time before his pursuer caught up, a-and then... No, don't think. Don't think. Be like you used to be.

Only silence. And instinct.

Like an animal.

He weaved inbetween passersbies, relying on his speed and others' shocked inaction to bring him closer to escape with each step. The civilians were too confused to stop him and deep down, most of them did not want to contribute to the apprehending - and subsequent punishment - of a thief that young.

Not when it was not their livelihood stolen. If it had been, he was positive they would be more than happy to see him bleed.

What he could not achieve with speed, he would with smarts. The redhead took a sharp turn left into a dark street, catching a glimpse of stacked boxes in the periphery of his sight. A quick assessment, and he leapt, making his way up and clambering onto a stone wall to then make for the roofs. More yelling, including that accursed word.

"The kiichimarichuril! Get him!"

His hood was down. No time to fix it, not with the food in one hand and reddened knife in another.

"He stabbed Vrynn! Medic!"

"Little fucking monster!"

"Hey! I know that one! Thief! Thief!"

His heart threatened to burst out his chest like a panicked bird. Flapping straining wings, pushing feathers like needles through ribs, searing pain surging in his lungs. He was just about to faint. But he couldn't.

No, no... He... Not only he... the others... needed...!

There was a sharp impact against his ankle. The dull sound of wood. Oceanic eyes widened, a pounding pulse skipped an entire beat.

His balance was -

A loud clatter signified his messy fall, small body slamming into an empty cart before rolling down onto the ground. Bread went flying everywhere, and so did his knife. His only defense. Maruku - Kiichimarimaruku - tried to force his body to stand, to do anything. Shaky limbs refused to move, a wheezing cough erupting from between dry lips and chipped teeth. His side...!

It hurt to breathe. Something warm pooled in his mouth, dripped onto the pavement.

The soldier approached slowly, smugly. In his hand - oh, the world was spinning - was a long, wooden object with a triangular shape at the tip. A spear. He had been got... swept off his feet by that spear.

A gloved hand reached down, and the boy could hardly fight back. By his hair he was lifted up, weak wide blues staring into the face of death itself. Such a striking visage, tempered by violence and unafraid to deliver it. He yelped, feeling his body dragged out onto the main street.

He wanted... saßu... he wanted to be strong. Stronger than this man. Never would he hurt children like so, even thieves. Surely there could be another way. If only... all that fighting stopped... everyone could live equal and never have to beg or steal.

Saßu...!

"Look what we have ourselves here." Another voice, one gruff as grinding stone. "A flea-ridden runt. Heard ya nearly killed that poor, innocent man." A kick delivered into his side. Another wheeze, and he spat warm blood. His tongue hurt like fire, he could not speak. "Oh, shit." The other soldier commented at the generous mouthful of red now splattered against cobblestone.

It was not the type of "oh shit" one would say when recognizing one's wrong. He learned that much when another kick drove a wedge of agony into his empty stomach; He let out a raspy screech. This time, he found the strength to bare his fangs, flashing wild eyes from beneath a curtain of disheveled crimson.

"Where's ya family, brat? Or are you an asiju?" Asiju. He recognized that word. Clanless. Yet another reason for them to look down on him. He replied not, panting heavily at the military man's feet.

That gnawing sensation... again. He could feel it. It dwelled deep within his bones.

"Weeell?" The warrior lifted him again, one bushy brow rising in mockery.

"Fuck... you." The wolven boy wheezed, and spat right in his captor's face.

The encroaching haze of deathly fear that suffocated him was gone. This was the growl of a living beast. He was alive. He would fight. Nothing else mattered, only the fury powered by his pain.

What blood and spit remained in his mouth all but turned to foam as he began to thrash, fingers outstretched as claws and digging into the exposed skin of the soldier's arm. Thick brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise and disgust, briefly letting go at the boy's display of madness. Maruku heaved, eyes wide those of some disease-stricken mutt. Garlands of thick, reddened saliva hung from an open mouth, teeth poised to strike.

What burst from the depths of his throat was the most inhuman scream he could muster, sending gathered onlookers jumping several feet back in alarm and confusion. It was almost as though he had caught the desert-death. Going insane with illness, striking at anyone in range before going down himself.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. If this was the end, he would go burning like a wildfire.

He could not see her with his sights set on the man before him - he could not see Ïsta as she came running to join the crowd, the old priestess in tow as they heard the infernal commotion. He could not hear their voices nor glimpse the girl's outstretched bandaged hand as she reached in vain for her friend.

Instead, all he could see was a rush of red painting his vision in a singular shade of wrath.

The dark-clad boy lunged with speed he hardly should have been able to muster, grabbing onto the man and digging his teeth into the fabric of his glove. There was a staggered yelp, a deep crease between furrowed brows that only spoke of violence in return.

"This brat is fucking insane!"

Another gloved hand buried into his hair, yanking him off his target and throwing his body ragdoll-like against the pavement. It knocked the wind out of his lungs, and with it, the mad spirit that seemed to possess him. Another cough, and the youth could only focus on the pain.

"Enough with this nonsense! You are guilty of theft as well as a violent attack with a sharp object. Now you're guilty of assault on a Lahriktaarese warrior as well." The last part was added with an ugly grin. This was it. The feeling sank in, a freezing sensation taking hold and stifling the flame that yet burned within his chest. This was it. He would be punished. He would have his hand taken off - perhaps his entire arm. And then he would die, because who would even help a wretch like him?

What fight remained inside would never save him from a grown warrior, let alone two of them. Even if by some miracle he slipped away, the crowd would surely stand wall and capture him again. The situation was hopeless and - oh, gods - he may have just killed a man over a few loaves of bread. What if he did? What if the knife went too deep and that man was dead?

Was this... justice? An innocent's life for one day of sustenance?!

He just wanted to help the church children. He just wanted... to help. For once, not be entirely selfish.

The remembrance of the Phoenix dominated his senses. The scent of soot, the warmth of fire. The brilliance of it all against the starlit sky, illuminating the night as if it were day. Summoners. They called them... summoners. Those who wielded power over those godly creatures. And the creatures were called... Espers. Each time they were invoked, it had to be done with the use of three souls.

A brief, second life before they returned to the earth with the breath of the Winds.

He remembered. He remembered the incantations well. A part of him wondered whether should he recite them, the great beast of fire would descend from the heavens to save him.

The verses... that summoner used.

The hold of the darkest earth, Mother Black.

The pyre of the gods, Fire Red.

The splendor of a living sun, Burning Gold.

The splendor of a living sun. He liked that. He would like to see it again so very, very much. But it seemed it was the darkness of the earth that would embrace him instead.

Once again he was dragged and thrown in front of the gathered crowd, a circle quickly forming. His captor’s boot found and dug into the side of his head, spilling a mess of crimson hair for all to see. He snarled like a beast as the city watched. A hunger for entertainment, eager eyes happy to witness another's agony. It was then that she registered to him.

Ïsta.

...He... had failed her. Had he? What foolish thinking. The notion that he could have even helped at all. What if they find out? That the church gave him shelter? Would they not pay for his idiocy as well? Kiichimarichuril. Little fucking monster. He mouthed her name, daring not speak it aloud.

The soldier’s boot pushed harder. He yelped, biting back tears as his arm was bent, cold steel touching his right wrist. The hand that had carried the knife - the tool of murder now abandoned somewhere in the dark alleyway. This is it. That sole thought raced through his mind, enveloping him in its entirety. He was shaking. His entire body was on fire and his battered side felt like it would split open at any moment. That damned soldier was saying something. Still quivering, with tears of pain welling up in those deep ocean eyes, he spat again.

Come on, get it over with. He fought not to beg. Do it. Spare me. He fought so hard. The metal felt frigid against tan skin.

"Hey! You there."

...Who?

A deep, grizzled male voice hollered from behind the circle of spectators, drawing the soldiers' attention. Maruku could only turn his gaze so much with the way his body was still forced against the ground.

There was a pair of... dark leather boots, the edges of a black cape. The way the newcomer stood was quite nonchalant, weight shifted to one side. "Let him go, I've seen enough. Taking this one."

There was a round of hushed, offended whispers. His captor let go of his arm, relieving the horrid pressure in his shoulder. "You what? Ohnzhejhar, you cannot possibly be serious."

"I am." The man - Ohnzhejhar, Silver Storm - affirmed, a hint of impatience in his voice. "By the law of the Wind Warriors, I choose to recruit this asiju. If he has what it takes. If not, I will return him here myself."

The whispers ceased, a stunned silence following in the wake of the strange Windarian's words. His tormentor saluted and stepped aside, side-glaring all the while but not daring to question a superior in rank. The wolven boy's body was beaten to hell and back and well on the verge of breaking in half - but he grit his teeth and rose, standing on wobbly legs to better see his savior.

The man was... monstrously tall, from this angle. Long silver hair adorned his head, eyes yellow like the Elder Moon staring unfathomable from overneath sharp cheekbones, the right of which was marked by a violet symbol of a crescent. Dark tan skin was painted with a long blue streak across the nose, seemingly sectioning his face into halves. His right arm bore some strange metal cuff - no, not cuff - a heavy engraved bracelet with what seemed to be a port of sorts.

"Done gawking? Then let's go." A gruff rumble, and the man began to walk.

...What? What did just... happen?

The man before him. His rescuer. He was more than a soldier. He was... a Wind Warrior. And what was that weapon upon his back? A gun as intimidating as its owner’s presence. Questions upon questions raced through a weary mind, but he could not help but search for her face in the crowd. Ïsta..!

There. There she was. In that moment, their gazes met.

Terror painted those orange eyes of one he had come to consider a friend. He wanted to reach out, to apologize. His lips moved, silently mouthing her name. The girl's eyes widened, and she stepped back. He glimpsed a brief flash of fear shadow over her features, and she slipped away into the crowd. She was afraid.

Afraid to be discovered; As a friend to the kiichimarichuril criminal.

No, no... he had to talk to her. Back at the church, he could go back and explain - that way, she would not have to be seen anywhere near him. No, he - saßu - he could not just leave them all like that. Even if he...!

I'll become a warrior.

His own words. His very own wish. And at some strange whim of destiny, or as a morbid joke from the gods, it came true.

I'll fight. But now I go.

He had to. Had to go. He had to catch up to that man, battered bones and lost blood be damned. His bit tongue still hurt, a dull throbbing pain seizing his entire form with each step he took. No, no - the chance he was given, he could not squander. The first real chance... in his entire life.

In those blue ocean eyes, the man named Silver Storm became as the very divine; An earthly god extending a helping hand to the wretched omen child.

Kindness, even laced with thorns, would become deified.

A single tear fell from the wolven boy's eyes; He blinked the moisture away, turning his back to the audience that had hoped to spectate his downfall. Turning his back to her.

"W...wait.." He called after the silver-haired warrior, half-running, half-stumbling after his savior. His chest felt heavy, but so long as he could yet breathe, he could walk.

The man seemed to ignore him, continuing to walk at a steady pace on those long legs that rendered his steps closer to a plains lion's leaps. For each of Storm's strides, he had to take four. Droplets of sweat rolled down a dirtied face painted with blood and grime alike. Saßu... what was up with that man? Did he change his mind? Had he already forgotten about the tiny shape following in his shadow? Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him, after all. Saßu, he couldn't... keep up that pace.

He was going to lose him.

Or so he thought. With quite the massive delay, the warrior reacted to his request, slowing down until he eventually halted, half-turned head staring with a golden side-eye. The way he glared, it sent shivers down the young Maruku's spine. "Hmm..." That voice, powerful as a landslide. "Let me see."

He approached, and the redhead boy froze in place. His eyes sparkled with pure wonder, even as his body would much rather seize up in primal terror. Becoming stiff as a log, tense with anticipation, each and every one of his instincts trained to brace for danger.

The warrior knelt down, both hands enveloping the asiju's sides, forcibly rotating him once, then again. He could only stand there, allowing his body to be guided by that monstrous man's hands, a little inspection of his form he would endure until his rescuer was satisfied with what he saw. Moon-yellow eyes looked on with an utter absence of emotion, an all-encompassing boredom painting steeled features. Another hmm resounding, a guttural noise, as though excavated from the belly of a beast.

A hand left his side, reaching for a satchel hanging at the warrior's waist. A pinch of what seemed to be... shimmering emerald dust, set into motion by a circular movement of the Storm's wrist. "From life's ether... Evergreen."

A press of an enormous hand against his chest, startled gasp forcing its way past the wolf-child's lips as he watched the Soil itself glow and take hold of every ache in his body - snuffing them out like dying candlelight. Suddenly, his side no longer stung like so. He gawked.

The youth's awestruck expression must have prompted the mage to speak. "Close that mouth before a hornet flies in." Was that... a joke? Told in a deadpan dryer than the Sand Sea itself? "Here." A bottle of water was passed his way, snapping him out of his stupor as greedy hands immediately brought it to parched lips, chugging the clear liquid in large and messy gulps.

"Do you have a name, boy?" One silvered brow rode higher, the Storm's question hanging heavy in the air. The mage resumed walking, just a little slower than before.

A name...? A name.

The redhead lowered the bottle, staring with wide, shining eyes. The light within slowly dimmed as he finally looked down, burying his gaze into the dirt. "No... no name. They only call me Maru..ku." A pause, and the boy considered. He may as well give the full version - the brand he had carried since his earliest days. "Kiichi...mari...maruku."

The Red-Haired Wolf. The Windarian word for red was interchangeable with blood. The very blood that supposedly granted his hair that rich crimson hue, a mark of the calamity that followed in his wake.

The Wind Warrior walked in silence for a moment - weighting his words behind yellow eyes. "Kiichimarimaruku, huh? That is a curse you carry. One that runs deep in your veins. You cannot escape it. But you can fight it."

"Fight...?"

"You have iron in your eyes and fire in your heart, churil." Stated the silver warrior. "A blade is what you will make. With the Ladnajredvi as your crucible. If you want to survive in this land, that is."

Was that... the name of the Wind Warrior's clan? A word for the sea and another he did not yet recognize. Yes, it must have been. In a way, was the blue line across the soldier's face not like the calm surface of water? Perhaps, one day, he could venture out to see the sea with his own two eyes.

The lively main street eventually gave way to farmland; animals kept for milk, meat and hide alike mooing, cooing and yowling their way as they passed by. What little grassy fields clung to Tonnavrel's walls like a babe to its mother soon reclined into gravel, life-giving soil metamorphosing into rocky desert.

At the final city gate awaited the distinct shape of a wagon, a beast of burden standing in front and eating out of the basket attached to its muzzle. The kivani's long tail swayed to-and-fro as they approached, a low rumbling noise offered in greeting as Storm's left hand smoothed over its head, tracing overneath its ink-black eye and the ridged base of a horn. "Steel Shrike!" He called out. A warrior - painted similarly upon the face - turned to salute her elder. "Prepare the kivani. We're moving."

There was another quick salute and the Ladnajredvi soldier set to work; Dark eyes briefly falling on the boy in Storm's shadow. She did not question, attention focused entirely on her task; Removing the feeder, double-checking the harness. She, too, was tall. Maruku seemed to shrink further the more people drew near to greet their returning leader.

"Alihkar. Good to see ye. Who's this?" Another voice inquired, expression unreadable behind a helmet. The hefty warrior peeked around his chieftain's side - and the redhead simply walked out from behind Storm. Though uncomfortable he was, his eyes turned into a picture of conviction. Appearing pathetic in front of the people who offered him kindness was the very last thing he wanted to do. The man seemed pleased. "Oho! A brave lil young'un. What a crazy shade of hair you have there."

Maruku scowled, inciting the warrior into a bout of belly-laughter. Silver Storm let it go on for a while before raising a hand and prompting the man to stop. Hearty chuckling eventually calmed down. "Look at 'im face. What a threat display. I like 'im, Ohnzhejhar-vahree, I like 'im. Kinda bloody though, 'e aight?"

"Stabbed a man." The mage casually replied. Ah yes, knife violence. The absolute most normal thing in the world. "The hunter-zealots wrung out the kid's hide."

A head of crimson promptly whipped round, large blues staring dumbfounded at the man whose intervention prevented his own, rather untimely, slaughter. Yellow eyes looked down, quite unphased. "What’s the matter?" Storm seemed to know exactly what hid behind shocked silence. "I saw. The man will live, though short an eye."

The boy could only open his mouth like a fish, searching for words that never came. Instead, he closed it and sank lower into his tattered poncho, making a show of averting his gaze. Well, at least he had confirmation now. He was glad... he was no murderer, after all.

But.. did that mean Storm had seen everything?

The armored man whistled, head bobbing up and down before his gaze returned to his leader. "A criminal?"

The elder nodded. "Thief. Swift on his feet and not afraid to sting."

The boy's hand instinctively went to trace over his knife's handle only to find it missing. Though its condition was terrible, it was the only weapon he had ever owned. Thanks to it, he managed to peel back shells and kill small animals he would not be able to otherwise. With it gone, a part of him felt he had just lost a faithful companion. A fragment of himself. Now he truly was a wolf without its fang.

"You look proper hungry." The jovial warrior commented - reaching for a satchel to retrieve some dried meat. He knelt down and held the scraps out, a little offering of peace. It was then that Maruku's stomach growled loudly, only deepening the scowl already painting his features. The food was promptly snatched up, much to the man's amusement.

The warriors - including Silver Storm, there were four in total - quickly finished their preparations for departure. The supply cart began to move and so did armored feet, aiming to reach the nearest village before the height of the hours of the Sun. From there, they would continue westward as soon as the searing heat gave way to evening.

"You've been through a lot today. You can go sit on the wagon." It was an offer he had to accept, lest he faint from too much excitement. The wolven boy climbed up, positioning himself in the front of the vehicle, a sheet of dark green fabric stretching overneath to provide much-needed shade. From there, he simply stared on ahead, observing the slow change of the landscape and listening to the quiet crunching of gravel under hoof and wheel alike.

Before long, weary lids began to droop, and he laid upon his side, lulled to sleep by exhaustion.

---------

Day of the Rabbit. Ninth morning hour.

The journey to Keep Ladnajredvi lasted three days in total. They moved by early dawn and evening and rested by noon. The west of the province offered relatively safe passage, the only risk worth considering being wandering bandits but even they had long since moved further south to exploit the raging war. The trip was uneventful; Interrupted only briefly by a passing rock drake. Still, the beast knew better than to start a fight with four grown, armed Windarians - instead ignoring them as it dragged its scaly belly across the road and disappeared into a cave.

It was because of the long, boring hours on the march that the youth’s mind began to wander. From his earliest memories to the still-fresh scene of bloodied cobblestone and heavy boots and mocking gazes. And her. Disappointed, having learned of the violence that lived inside him. In the end, that gnawing anger shared its nest with guilt.

And from then on out, he would do his best not to dwell on the life - the lives - he left behind.

Rocky desert once again began to change; Almost as though Windaria herself was a dragon shedding scales. Sharp stone fell away to reveal a kinder, softer land, a stretch of plain peppered here and there with trees. In the distance loomed heavy, coiling spires, a special type of natural formation shaped by Soilwind.

The boy walked at Silver Storm's side, gazing in awe at the fortified Keep rising from the horizon. The longer they marched, the closer the city drew, a fortress built from chiseled stone dominated by a single circular tower.

"Welcome to Lir Hassan, churil!" Announced the heavily armored man - whom he now knew by the name Rurvakannu, Roaring Gale. "The Third Gate to the West, home to our people."

Strange-looking engines set to work on either side of the main entryway, extending a slab of metal over the dry moat that further protected the fortress-town. Storm's group rolled in, signalling for the passage to close. Stationed soldiers saluted, framing their little procession before returning to scheduled patrols. The metal drawbridge folded with the sound of turning machinery.

The town was not as big as Tonnavrel, but it could withstand an army. Ladnajredvi were a warrior clan - knowing just how to fortify their den to keep out unwanted visitors. From the very dawn of civilization, people had drawn teachings from nature. Like a rock drake piled sharp stones round its nest, so, too, did man raise walls and line moats with pikes. Lir Hassan was a city ready to meet violence with violence - it was made further evident by the various vehicles of war stationed inside the walls - rough and brutal looking hulls decorated in blue war paint.

The imagery of the sea. The boy's brows furrowed in confusion. He didn't recall seeing the Grand Blue anywhere near. Was it... a hidden sea, somehow? This made no sense. Why would the Ladnajredvi be named that if their Keep wasn't even beside water?

"Ohnzhejhar-vahree," He addressed the silver-haired mage. His broken Lahriktaarese had improved owing to his time in the church, but the phrasing could still be awkward at best. Particularly if he just blurted things out without thinking. "Why clan Sea-Risen if no sea?"

The Storm's head turned to allow a steeled gaze to fall on his pupil.

"This is not our original home. We were driven from our land, Malatuur, long ago." Unmoving moonlit eyes seemed to fill with a certain melancholy. "Ladnakutri Malatuur lies at the precipice of the Jewel of Windaria. Our ekkti and syajhiri, among other things, reflect the spirit of the waves."

"Ekkti... syajhiri?" Maruku asked, head tilting slightly to the side.

"The ekkti is the facial tattoo worn by warriors. If you do well in the eyes of Clan Elders and the Holy Beast himself, you too will bear your own." It was clear the man was not too keen on speaking this much a day - and yet, doing so was inevitable with a trainee such as the young Red Wolf. "A syajhir is a cape worn for ceremonies."

Indeed, this child was simultaneously the most ignorant and most curious one he had come to tutor. Even if something prevented him from speaking properly. A foreigner, perhaps? It mattered very little when he was already branded kiichimarichuril. "Come."

Maruku's time to awe at the city was short as the four warriors ascended up a stairway leading into the tower. The gate loomed tall, protected by twin stylized statues of mandible-bearing dragons. Their wings looked as though suns - propellers..? - had been fit into their wrists.

He could recognize the depiction of Lord Bahamut anywhere. He was the Ro Alihkar, after all. The Chieftain of the Gods, Lord of the Soil and Forge Patron of Firearms. It was this very dragon who lived within the Magun, locked in the central spire of the High Temple. Why would somebody imprison a deity? Even the God of Destruction was a part of nature.

They walked in silence. The only noise that accompanied their quiet ascent was the sound of reinforced boots meeting stone. The tower was not only tall, but wide. All around, the stairwell branched out into corridors, each leading to separate parts of the Keep. The stone walls, lit by what appeared to be veins of light carved parallel to the summit, displayed various scenes from history and mythology alike. Ancient figures and splendid creatures fought side-by-side, challenging a great darkness and its horned servants.

Eventually, however - the upwards spiral came to a stop, a singular opening remaining before the stairwell cut off with one final mural. The shape of a man holding a golden gun, with the same white dragon from before standing behind with claws perched protectively upon his shoulders. The hero's face was blurry, indistinct, and completely unremarkable. There was an ornate inscription below - not that he could read it.

Maruku's gaze was forcibly pried from the artwork when they walked out into the room sitting at the very top of the Keep.

The circular space they found themselves in was mostly overtaken by a long, wooden table of rather remarkable craftsmanship, seats lining both of its sides - some of which were already taken. The gathered Windarians' eyes fell on them in unbroken silence, awaiting for their alihkar to speak first. Silver Storm stepped in front, striking moongold gaze sweeping over his subjects, satisfied with what it was seeing.

"I greet you, warriors of Lir Hassan, my kindred. Today I return with the intention to acquaint you with the asiju I had recruited in the name of the Winds. May the Four Winds bless our Soil."

"May the Four Winds bless our Soil." Maruku caught on halfway through, reciting the greeting alongside the others. A greeting he already knew.

Once again did that same hum rumble in the Storm's throat. Before he knew it, yellow eyes fell on the gathered once again. "He is a warrior in spirit. A survivor. Henceforth, he will join the warband I mentor."

So... the man who had saved him would be the one to train him, after all. Blue eyes looked up, gazing at the warrior as though he were the Elder Moon. The wolf's very first guiding light.

He could feel Storm's hand rest upon his shoulder not unlike Bahamut’s claws did on the champion’s. A subtle, but clear enough, nudge to step forward.

So he did.

The other elders observed him with piqued interest, one that weighted heavy on the boy who had grown up always on the run. A long stare like that had only ever spelled trouble; His heart picked up the pace, adrenaline pumping to prepare the young wolf to bolt. He swallowed back instinctive alarm, remaining as unshakable as he could muster.

"What is your name?" An older, feminine voice eventually inquired, a grizzled veteran of war with a scarred eye leaning forward upon her elbows. Only one orb of green bore into his soul.

"I have none." He replied. There was no point thinking those words his name, anyway. Doing so was synonymous with granting his earliest tormentors the right to define him.

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

Ïsta, she... against the odds, chose to define herself. Even in the shadows, unheard by others; Diligently did she remember her true name.

But then, why had he never defined himself..? What was his true name? Did he ever have one?

There was a round of exchanged whispers, many pairs of eyes - ones both complete and incomplete - continuing to bear into his form. Like hawks, gazing on from above upon their newest meal. Don't think like that.

"Very well, nameless child. Soon, if your strength of will and the Lord of Espers allow, you shall have one."

A name... his true name.

The Ladnajredvi elders turned towards Storm and saluted. The alihkar responded with a slight bow of his head, an acknowledgement and a thank you. As feral as he appeared, the young wolf knew better than to leave without paying respects. For the first time in his life, he found himself lowering his head alongside the man who would become his mentor. Copying his movements, learning even now from the smallest motion. Even beasts could recognize authority and he was no beast.

He was ready to define his worth.

[triquizzies]

Nine Tarot Cards

THE EIGHT OF WANDS Alone on the stage, the woman raises the tyrant's head. Before her are the baying crowds, the cheering masses gathered in celebration of death, in celebration of the new. She too is caught up in it all, ivory teeth bared in a ferocious grin. Her hair has been set aflame by the rising sun. Her hands are red with burns, or with blood. Behind her are eight pikes slick with gore, topped with the heads of traitors.

THE KING OF WANDS The throne is empty. Before it sits an aged man, bent forward in thought. He clutches a rod of grey wood, tipped with silver. His chair is of black stone without ornament or decoration. The room is white marble, illuminated by countless candles. On the throne rests a crown of bright gold and blazing rubies. There has not been a king for many years.

THE FOOL: A storm approaches a rocky coastline. The cliffs are bright chalk, and the encroaching sea and threatening sky are as dark as iron. Between them, at the edge, flies the albatross, its wings spread. As lightning strikes, it is hard to say whether it is blown away from the bolts, or soars above them on the fierce winds. THE EMPEROR: He sits on a throne of roughly hewn stone, stained with blood and gore. In front of it is a massive table, covered with food and drink until it, at last, has collapsed. He does not care. The palace around him was once grand, but now it is a ruined husk of a building. He does not notice. His hands and mouth are reddened, and his finery is splattered and stained. The courtiers around the throne eat and drink and pay their obsequious tributes to their lord. He grabs one, and stuffs them into his mouth.

THE LOVERS: The serpent who was a man stands among the gears of a great clock. Under one arm he holds a book, bound in grey leather, its cover embossed with the symbol of a crown. Blood pools at his feet. Before him dance puppets of kings, emperors - rulers of men. He is bound with string as much as they are, but he grips their ends tight - until his fingers are white, and red with his own blood. THE TOWER: The great Clock Tower, the Fortress of Hours, stands in ruins. Its ivory stones are blackened and charred by flames. Around its base swarms a vast mass of people: an immense crowd tearing the tower apart, taking its stones for their houses, and covering what's left in graffiti. Before it, atop the wrecked spire, stands a red-headed woman in a black trench coat. In one hand she wields an executioner's sword, its blade still bloody; and in the other she raises a crowned head to the heavens. THE MOON: Beneath gembright stars and the stark light of the full moon, a huntress crouches over the bodies of her two sisters. Their bodies, once beautiful, are shattered and broken. In her hands she clutches a bow, intricately decorated, and the . Her tunic is of silk, the fringe dyed imperial purple. On her brow is a circlet of gold. She weeps. The grass around her is thickly webbed by spider-silk, and the spiders themselves can be seen here and there, their carapaces gleaming in a myriad of colours. THE SUN: As the sun rises, the very sky is set alight. Though all above burns, the land is rich and fertile, nourished by the ashes; and a city of white marble and burnished steel fills most of the background. Before it, a naked figure constructs their own pyre. They clutch a burning brand in their right hand, and the flames lick at the fingers. THE WORLD: A scarab beetle's corpse lies on bare earth, its shell punctured and its legs broken. The scarab's children scurry away from its body in swarms, pouring from its mortal wounds. Around it coils a millipede, devouring its own tail.

[ahtohallan-calling]

chapter 19 of love is the only thing we can carry with us (kristanna slowburn/angsty but cute/no magic au, rated t) is up!

next chapter // all chapters

He wanted to weep, to shout for joy, to kiss her so soundly that there was never again any doubt that he was hers, completely, no matter how great the distance between them, and then all at once she was there beside him, slipping her little hand into his, standing at an angle and adjusting her skirts no one could see. “Are you really here?” she whispered, her voice hoarse, and something in him shattered.

chapter 19: the party

She needs you.

Nothing else mattered. 

Kristoff raced back to town with Olaf, dropping him off without even saying goodbye.

She needs you.

At his cabin, he slung essentials haphazardly into his satchel, snatching up his festival clothes and stuffing them on top; it was the closest thing he had to ballroom finery, but it would have to do. He was back on Sven within five minutes, galloping down the mountain. The party started that evening at seven; if the postman had been even an hour later, he might not have made it in time. Even now, it was going to be close.

She needs you.

It didn’t matter. Nothing did, nothing but getting to Anna. If he missed the engagement party and whatever deadline that involved, he’d just keep going, all the way across the vast expanse of ocean to the Southern Isles, further if he had to. He had only been kept from her side by the knowledge that it was her choice to go, her sacrifice to make, and he would never dream of taking that freedom away from her. Even now, he was prepared to turn and come back the moment she asked him to, but if Elsa had had to be the one to write him…

“Faster, Sven,” he pleaded, and the reindeer sped up, snorting as if he understood.

Already it was beginning to snow, a few fat flakes drifting down and landing in his hair. The old fears began to surface in his mind again; if Anna is out in this-- if she’s sick again-- if it’s too late--

He gritted his teeth. She needed him, and so he would come to see her through it, to whatever end.

---

True to her word, Elsa had posted two men at the gates-- but to his surprise, they waited outside of the city, not by the castle as he had expected. Were things so dire that he had to be guided from this point on?

One of them raised a hand in greeting, and Kristoff tugged on the reins. “Our visitor from the mountains?” the man asked, and he nodded.

“Follow me. My friend will take care of your reindeer.”

Kristoff stiffened. “Sven goes--”

“He’ll be at the castle with you,” the man reassured him. “He’ll just be getting there another way. We’ll have him waiting for you outside the kitchens. Queen’s orders. I’m sure you understand why better than we do.”

Kristoff nodded again, wishing that he understood any of this. The man led him on a winding route through the city, taking back alleyways at every possible opportunity. Kristoff was grateful for a guide; between the snow and the setting sun, he would have had a hard time navigating even if he had been more familiar with the city. To his dismay, he realized that there was only one way to the castle itself: through a massive set of gates and across a wide, stony bridge. His companion noticed his worried expression and heaved a sigh.

“Not ideal in a moment like this, but at least not many people saw you get to this point. Once we’re over, there’s a back route again, the way the servants come and go.”

Kristoff tried to remain calm and inconspicuous in the crowds of people crossing the bridge, wondering if they could sense that he didn’t belong. A carriage rolled by him, clearly on its way to the party, and he heard titters of excitement from the others on the bridge, questions about who was inside, what the prince looked like, what the princess would be wearing, whether the Queen might be married next. 

He wanted to take them by the shoulders, shake them and ask them why they weren’t worried, why they weren’t asking about why this was happening; how could they stand around gossiping idly about gowns when Anna was giving up everything for this, for them, when she needed him and he still wasn’t there yet?

He shoved his hands in his pockets, clenching his fists until they were over the bridge and cocooned once more in the blessed silence of the back streets. The guard glanced back at him with sympathy. “You alright?”

Kristoff forced himself to nod. He didn’t know how much this man could be trusted. Luckily, he didn’t press him with more questions; instead, he squared his shoulders and picked up his pace, the urgency of the situation clear to him even without an explanation. At last they reached the back doors of the castle, and the man bowed. “This is where I leave you,” he said. “Upstairs two flights, take a right, at the end of the hall. Knock four times.”

Kristoff didn’t have to be told twice. He took off, nearly running, and grateful that everyone in the lower part of the castle seemed to be moving at a similar pace, rushing to prepare things for the ball. It had to be starting any minute now; he could hear violins warming up as he pounded up the first flight of stairs.

At last he found himself at the set of heavy, oaken doors and knocked the mandated four times, his heart in his throat. The door opened just a crack and he slid inside. “Where is she?” he panted, hardly waiting for the door to be shut again.

“Kristoff,” Elsa breathed, looking as panicked as he felt. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t come.”

“I’m here. Where’s Anna?”

“In her rooms-- stop!” she said, catching the sleeve of his shirt as he turned to go. “She’s with Hans.”

His stomach turned at the thought of him there with her. “What does she need?” he asked, forcing down the rising tide of nausea.

“She has to get out of here. I can’t let her go through with it.”

“She still wants to go with him?”

“No. But she will if you can’t talk her out of it.”

Kristoff swore under his breath. “Tell me what I need to know. Only enough, we’re--”

“Running out of time, yes. Did you bring formal clothes?”

He nodded, already pulling them out of his satchel. “Good,” Elsa said, relieved. “Change while I explain.”

She turned her back for modesty’s sake. “You know why she had to leave. Arendelle is--”

“In a mess.”

“To say the least. He’s taking advantage of the situation, plans to take the kingdom one way or another. He’s convinced her that this is the least painful route for all parties.”

“You used to agree with that.”

Even though her back was turned to him, he could hear the wince in her voice. “Berate me for the past later. For now, help me convince her to stay. She can do more for Arendelle here, even without this alliance.”

“What if she says no?”

“She might. She did to me. But you…” She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze. “She might yet listen to you.”

“There’s a lot riding on my powers of persuasion.”

“There’s a lot riding on how much she loves you,” Elsa said, turning to help him with the buttons of his vest. He let her; his fingers were shaking too badly to even keep hold of them. “Hans wants to leave with her before the storm starts.”

“It already has.”

“Then we have less time than I thought. Walk with me while we can. You’ll have to go back down the way you came, come in through the main entryway.”

He hurried after her, still trying to make sense of it all. “If she agrees to break it off?”

“Get her out. Hide her somewhere.”

“Why? Can’t you just kick him out?”

“We can, but I worry he’ll take her with him anyway, whether she wills it or not.”

“Anna’s tougher than--”

Elsa turned back, placing a hand on his arm. “She’s sick, Kristoff.”

And you weren’t here to-- He shoved the thought away. “How sick?”

“I don’t know. She won’t--” Elsa closed her eyes for a moment, composing herself. “She won’t tell me.”

Kristoff didn’t wait to hear more; he pushed past her, heading down the stairs, praying to every god he knew that he wouldn’t be too late. 

He slipped in with the crowds, forcing himself not to elbow his way past them all and burst into the ballroom. Panic was rising in his throat, but he forced it back; panic wouldn’t save Anna. At last, he was through, standing in a ballroom that could have housed half of his village, but he had eyes only for her. He shouldered his way through crowds of dancers with murmured apologies, searching frantically for any sign of her. “Damn it, Anna,” he muttered, “why couldn’t you be taller?”

His eyes caught on a streak of red hair, and it took all he had not to break into a run there and then. It was Anna, but not his Anna; he had never known her like this, never seen her so pale and delicate that she looked like a snowflake ready to melt away. She turned, escorted into a dance by a man whose ostentatious silver suit matched her gown, and Kristoff swallowed hard; the cut of her dress was low enough for him to see her shoulder blades flutter with the movement, unnaturally sharp against her skin.

Feeling ill himself, he watched her dance with the man-- Hans, no doubt-- knowing how much it had to be costing her. He was trying to figure out the best way to cut in without causing a scene when suddenly, by some miracle, her eyes landed on his, just for a moment. He froze in place, wondering if she had realized it was him; she kept dancing as if she had noticed nothing, but then only a moment later in the midst of a spin her eyes locked on his, widening in recognition. He dared to move a little closer, staying on the fringes of the crowd, knowing that this would likely be his only shot.

The song ended at last, and she made a neat little curtsy to her partner before leaning up to whisper in his ear. He nodded and moved away through the crowd, making his way with practiced ease. The moment his back was turned, Kristoff pushed forward, his heart pounding.

Anna moved towards him, looking stunned. The world seemed to slow around him, all the colors and sounds fading into a blur as she reached for him, eyes even bluer than he had remembered, even with shadows smudged underneath them. He wanted to weep, to shout for joy, to kiss her so soundly that there was never again any doubt that he was hers, completely, no matter how great the distance between them, and then all at once she was there beside him, slipping her little hand into his, standing at an angle and adjusting her skirts no one could see. “Are you really here?” she whispered, her voice hoarse, and something in him shattered.

“Yes,” he said softly, squeezing her hand, the way he had dreamed of so many times during the seemingly endless sweep of empty days. 

A little whimper escaped her then, her eyes welling up with tears. “Kristoff--”

The music started up again, and he hastily set his other hand on her waist. “Stand on my feet if you need to,” he said hurriedly, beginning to lead her into the dance. “Just try to make it until we’re closer to the doors.”

“How did you-- how are--” She broke off, already having to pause to catch her breath.

“Don’t talk,” he said, fighting the wave of terror threatening to consume him. “Just stay with me.”

She nodded weakly, and he tugged her a little closer, letting her put more of her weight against him. “Elsa asked me to come. She’s worried about you. She wants you to stay here.”

Anna opened her mouth, ready to protest, but Kristoff shook his head. “You don’t have to explain. She told me you think this is what’s best for Arendelle. But Anna-- think of everything you could do here. Nobody loves this place like you do. Imagine how much more you could accomplish if you stayed.”

“It’s not that easy,” she said, sorrow settling over her features. “He wants it for himself. He won’t stop.”

“You could stop him.”

“You put too much faith in me,” she said, forcing a pitiful laugh. 

He shook his head emphatically. “Anna--”

She stumbled then with a near-silent cry of pain, and his heart squeezed in his chest. Glancing up, he spotted a shadowy corner blocked by a large plant and pulled her into it, knowing he had only a few moments left before someone noticed she was missing. “Anna, who’s to say this wedding will be enough for him? What if you go and he still goes through with the rest of it?”

She bit her lip. “I-- I know he might…”

“You could stop him from here. You’ve got your sister, you’ve got the people backing you. There’s still a chance--”

Her eyes widened suddenly; she pushed him away, dropping his hand. Kristoff looked over his shoulder, a cold chill running down his spine as Hans approached, murder in his eyes.

“You think to make a mockery of me at my own engagement party?” he hissed, reaching down to yank Anna forward by the wrist. “You think I’m too much of a fool to notice you slipping away?”

“Hans--” Anna started weakly, but he yanked her closer, making her cry out in pain. Kristoff started for him, ready to put an end to it all then and there, but Anna shook her head, fear in her eyes. He followed her line of sight and realized, blood draining from his face, that two guards wearing the regalia of the Southern Isles were watching, hands on their swords.

He turned back after a moment’s calculations, ready to snatch her away and run, but already they were gone.

[holy-kingdom-of-faerghus]

Tales of the Brazen Sword

Prompt: Classic mode, Blue Lion route where Felix died during the war, and Dimitri raises his children on stories of Felix’s conquests before admitting that he knew him first hand. 

Note: Somewhat angst… but with a surprising and happy ending

Ever since Lambert was young, he had heard stories of Felix: The Brazen Sword. Felix was, as his father claimed, a brilliant swordsman with brash tendencies who preferred action over “idle chatter.” In fact, he was the man that Lambert’s middle namesake had been taken from.The man was swift on the battlefield and could cut down dozens of enemy troops within mere minutes-- something he knew not many men could do. He was, as the King described him, a flurry of different shades of blue and glinting silver, when in combat. His single goal in life was to defeat any foe who dared to stand before him and to be the best swordsman in all of Fodlan. 

But, despite his obvious skill in battle and his stoic nature, Felix was also a loyal friend. Despite all the trouble his prince had caused him, Felix had remained loyal to the royal’s cause-- never straying from the path that his highness had paved. He wore a mask of cold indifference and insisted on doing nothing but honing his skills with the blade-- Dimitri swore. Though, the naive prince would later find out that the hardened swordsman only did so in an effort to protect his people and his highness from any harm. And that the prince would soon come to realize his reasonings when it was far too late-- for it was these reasons that caused the vigilant swordsman’s fall.

One night, after a long and taxing day, Dimitri coaxed his thirteen year old son to bed with promises of a bedtime story.

“Tonight Lambert, I will tell you of Felix’s final conquest. In fact I think you are quite familiar with the tale- however, I have never told you my account of it.” The king told his son softly, a fond smile on his face as he stroked the childs blonde hair. “It was a hectic afternoon, the sun was beating down among the troops and everyone was tired from storming the streets of Enbarr.” Lambert gasped-- he did indeed recognize the tale. “We could taste victory on the tip of our tongue-- morale was high and we realized the long and bloody war was coming to a close,” he licked his chapped lips before continuing. “I hadn’t lost anyone incredibly dear to me-- not since the former Lord Fraldarius’s death; so I was confident that we would all make it through.” The man laughed bitterly, tears welling up within his sole eye, he gripped Lambert’s hand tightly. “How foolish I was.” Forgetting his status, the young prince ripped off his covers and clambered onto his father’s lap, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“It’s alright father, you needn’t tell me this story-- I do not wish to see you cry.” Lambert consoled.

“No, no; I will tell you this tale son, you deserve to hear it.” Dimitri took in a deep, rattling breath. “As I was saying, Byleth-- that is the Archbishop-- had ordered Felix and I, (Lambert gasped at the revelation), to lead the charge.” Dimitri took a moment to blink away his tears. “It was absolute chaos, your Uncle Sylvain and Uncle Ashe were supposed to be watching our backs. But we had underestimated the number of reinforcements the Emperor had waiting. The plan had failed-- it became a free for all. Felix… oh Felix.” 

“Father… it’s alright, I think Mr. Felix would be glad to hear you speaking of him in such a way.” This statement did nothing to console the grieving king, instead it made him weep more.

“If it had gone as planned… you would be addressing Felix as ‘Uncle’ not Mr.” he confessed, “but it all went awry.” After a few more moments of sniffled filled silence, the story continued. 

“I’ve always been particularly vulnerable to mages-- barely fast enough to dodge their most basic spells, let alone their more advanced ones. But Felix had a much leaner figure than me and thus had an easier time avoiding them.” Dimitri explained, once again taking in a slow, shuddering breath. 

“We were both doing so well, most of the mages had been defeated, though it proved to be incredibly taxing on our bodies. Our foes were incredibly quick on their feet-- practically dodging our every swing, we had to work thrice as hard as usual to just defeat one of them.” His father gulped as he prepared to retell his childhood friends death. “Even… even Felix, who worked five times as hard as anyone in the army- even harder than me, had been exhausted. And he could tell I was too.  So… so when the third wave of reinforcements came he… he told me to jump on Ashe’s wyvern. He told me to end the terrible, pointless war. He said that he could handle the next wave of soldiers-- that Sylvain would come to aid him if he needed it.” 

A river of tears spilled from his father’s eye and Lambert couldn’t do anything but watch and offer his silent comfort.

“I could see it all from the wyvern’s back. Felix fighting tiredly, desperately; pouring his heart and soul into each skillful swing, the blade a silver blur as he slashed furiously. His pale skin was flushed red and he was stained with blood-- from both himself and from the Imperial soldiers. And I- I watched as this warlock-- I can remember her expression vividly, she had this insane, blood thirsty look in her eye as she cast her darkest spell. She summoned hundreds of large, violet spikes, ones that I’ve only ever seen dark mages use, and in an instant she had impaled Felix with them. Oh Seiros-- I can still hear his screams.” 

Lambert was horrified at his father’s gruesome description of Felix’s death-- though he could not deny his absurd fascination at the topic. 

“I-I jumped from the wyverns back and rushed to him-- it must have taken half a minute or so, but he was still alive. I slaughtered the bitch-- ahem, pardon me-- the witch who had dared harm him and knelt beside him. He had so many puncture wounds-- even Mercedes would not have been able to heal him. I could do nothing but beg him for forgiveness-- for not mending our relationship when I had the chance… do you know what he told me?”

The thirteen year old heir lifted his head, silently inquiring what it was that Felix had said.

“It’s pathetic really,” he had said, “that only now you apologize for all your wrongdoings.” Brushing a tear from his eye, Dimitri continued with his recount. “But… I forgave you a long time ago so it’s pointless really. Since I won’t get the chance to say it again… I’m sorry Dimitri. It’s a shame that my old man had to die, that the Fraldarius line can’t protect the royal family anymore. So take our relic… so at least… even after death we can serve you.” 

“What! He gave you House Fraldarius’s hero’s relic?” The king chuckled and nodded. “Wait… so what is their relic anyway? Oh, is it his blade? Or another lance like yours?” 

“No, it’s not a weapon like the other lines, in fact… it’s a shield, the Aegis Shield.” Dimitri discarded his regal cape and revealed a shining golden shield from beneath it. “In the distant past, the Fraldarius and Blaiddyd line were connected through marriage… from that union a royal child was born, so we carry the Fraldarius crest within our bloodline.” He gently set the shield onto the bedding, encouraging his son to inspect it closely. “Now Lambert… when you were born we had you checked for a crest-- as is royal protocol. Surely you can imagine our surprise when you ended up with the major Fraldarius crest over the minor Blaiddyd one-- especially after we had added Felix’s name to your own.”

Lambert let out an audible ‘huh’ at his father’s words before narrowing his eyes in concentration.

“Is- is that why I’m not heir to the throne?” He questioned, a calculating shine overtaking his warm brown eyes. His father nodded, averting his gaze as if he was ashamed.

“I know you must be upset--” Dimitri began before he was abruptly interrupted. 

“Upset?” Lambert declared incredulously, “why would I be upset? This explains so much! That’s why all my tutors teach minor politics and the inner workings of territory government! Why, I have such frequent field assignments to Fraldarius territory… Heck, it even explains why I’ve had to meet with the heirs of House’s Galatea and Gautier so often… But what does that mean for House Blaiddyd? What of the Kingdom?”

King Dimitri cracked a smile, seemingly relieved that his son was taking the news so easily. 

“Well, your brother, Rodren, will be taking the throne; yes, he has a Crest of Blaiddyd, so you needn’t trouble yourself with worry.” His words struck a chord within his son, who blinked his bleary eyes and scooted off his father’s lap. “Ah, have you grown bored of our conversation already?” The newly realized Fraldarius heir nodded and smiled tiredly.

“Thank you for telling me father…” 

“Of course it was your right to know as Fraldarius heir.”

“No, I meant, thank you for telling me Uncle Felix’s story… and for the shield. I hope I can live up to his legacy…” With those last words exchanged, Lambert fell into a deep slumber, leaving Dimitri to stare at his son in awe. He brushed the blondes hair back and pressed a kiss to his forehead, picking up the Aegis Shield and placing it on a nearby chair. He stood up and made to leave the room before freezing in the arched doorway and looked back towards his son.

“I’m sure you will, Lambert, I’m sure you will.” And for a mere moment, Dimitri could have sworn he had heard Felix’s voice say “he already has.”

[furymint]

wc: 1,165 | @sonderjack requested Masquerade, Command, n Broken for Nol (word prompt meme)

Masks circled in the center of the room, matching themselves to the monikers on their dance card, and waited for the music to swell. Nolanel reassured a woman that he was not the Douglas who promised her the next dance; his name is Feran and no he does not dance; he has no mask because he is a guard. She peered askance at him through her eyelashes. Nolanel excused himself. As he turned, her fingertips swiped over his heart. One of his badges swung after catching on her painted nail. He shuddered.

A violin gave the first soft note and the room’s attention swung to the center. He gave way to annoyance. His vigilance remained on the crowd through the first act of the song afore it found the woman.

She stood against the wall of the room, speaking with a dark-haired man. Her hand rose to her neck to toy with the hair there. Deliberately, her finger looped around the silver chain at her neck, tugging a red pendent free from beneath her collar. A dragon claw dangled from the metallic clasp. She grinned cold as death as she replaced it and reached for a wine glass.

Nolanel’s vision dotted. He took a breath and reached for the knife at his side. Too many people. Do not throw. Do not fear. Sound drained from his senses as he approached. She giggled something to him and lifted her glass in toast.

Nolanel grabbed her by the arm, twisted it, and slammed her against the wall. He pressed the knife against the side of her neck with enough pressure to redden the skin. Her breath caught. She froze. Nolanel removed his weapon to tear her collar aside and snatch her necklace. He pulled it taunt against her throat and spun it to the front. Only the metal clamp remained.

“Damn you!” He returned the knife to her neck and wrenched her arm deeper. Nolanel glared over his shoulder to the man she spoke to. Gone. Idristan approached, fists clenched, blade not drawn.

“Ser Feran,” he called. “Stand down.”

“No, captain. There’s another. Hyuran man, blue cloak, curly black hair–”

The woman squirmed and wailed, red faced in fury. Nolanel strengthened his grip, reeled her into him, and bashed her back into the wall. Her forehead pounded into the stone. Blood weeped around his knife. “Lucky you swallowed that fucking thing or I’d slit your throat right here. Make no mistake, they’ll carve it from you.”

Idristan shoved his way through the gaping crowd. He set his hand to Nolanel’s shoulder and clenched it at the pressure point. “That’s enough.”

“She’s a godsdamned witch, captain.”

“She goes to the Tribunal.”

“She goes to hell either way.”

He allowed Idristan to tear him away, using the momentum to rip the woman aside and to the floor. She sprawled, coughing, to the golden marble. To keep himself from kicking or spitting at her, he ripped the first pin from his chest–distinguished service–and threw it at her face.

Someone else spat his name and grabbed him by his aiguillettes. Ephemie dragged him away. She cursed him over discretion. “Think, Nol! No blood. My gods. C'mon, out!” Ignoring the rest of the world’s cries, she stormed from the hall to the street. She released him there.

He stopped. Within a minute, the temperature caused his grit teeth to chatter. He slapped a hand over his eyes and pulled his shoulders closer to his neck. Emotion shook him; he cried and moved away.

Ephemie matched his step and placed her hand against his back. “You all right?”

He spoke as he marched, breath coming in ragged spurts. “I–I’m–pissed. The unmitigated disrespect of all it–to flaunt a draconian rosary in the sight of Halone and her believers–at a banquet for orphans. That all them trust in her innocence over my word–that she still lives–I know what I saw. Seen those things more than any of the folk in that godsdamned room. I know I’m wrong about so many things, but I know what I saw. She–She thought I was one of her own.“

The plates of his armor flashed yellow under the light of the Last Vigil’s street lamps. He continued into darkness, observing the fog swirl around his feet as it rose from the Brume. Nolanel cracked a piece of ice from the railing and clenched it in his fist, temporarily calmed by the pain. Fury stabbed his heart and he threw the ice to the pavement just to see it shatter.

“I got no power here. They trust me outside of the city to kill heretics, but here they call me rash. I’m a disruption. I’m morbid. It’s what I’m supposed to. Why else were they thinking the knights were there? To flank doorways so they can nod at us as they walk in? We have to protect them. We can’t always do it behind closed doors and seventy malms away in some nowhere land they can’t see.”

Ephemie approached him and flicked his pauldron. She backed into the railing and sat atop it, fingers curling around the chilly metal for support. Her breath fogged afore her as she sighed and let her head hang slack. The scores of pins in her hair glowed like gold around her thick braid. “It’s stupid as turkeys, but anger ain’t for home.”

“But it’s my anger. I won’t destroy it because people think it’s improper once I step through the Arc of the Worthy.” Nolanel snapped more icicles free to smash them as he continued talking. “Eliminating crazed apostates makes more sense than sensibilities. We ain’t complaining. They can accept what that means at face value. I am what I talk like and look like and act like. They want a soldier. I am one. They know how I talk and look and act but once I do it in front of them, I’m morbid. I’m fucking sick’s what I am. You know that.”

He threw the last piece of ice into the sky. Ephemie stopped him from grabbing another. "Nol, what you’re saying’s important, but you’re digressing from what just happened. I know it’s hypocrisy. But you can’t make someone bleed out on the dancefloor–their death’ll put a stop to the ball and that’s what they want. All them people were safer in that hall. Get them outside and it’s naught but them and the night.”

Nolanel allowed her to hold his wrist. He bowed his head and clenched his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry, Eph. I get it. Gods, I–I’d die for them but I despise them some of the time. They ought to hurt. Sometimes. Once? All I see of them is bloody numbness. Straight to the wine and the–the unreal smiles. I’m wrong and so’s that. But I am not numb. That’s the least I can do. I don’t know what else I want, ‘cept I’m glad I’m out of that bin and out with you. I’m sorry, Eph. I’m just sorry.“

[elissastillstands]

Bitter Myths

Fandom: Star Trek: Discovery Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Word count: 2,783 Relationships: Michael Burnham/Philippa Georgiou Summary: Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles mourned. 

As a strong tree which stood proud and graceful—having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, and was just now glowing in full bloom—is snapped by a sudden gust, and falls mightily, its glory of flowers now covered in dust, so too did Patroclus fall.

No matter what Achilles does, Patroclus falls.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896385

-----

Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles mourned.

-----

"Wait, Michael, you use the holosuite?" Tilly asks, her eyes widening in delight when she sees the sliver of the program chip in Michael's hand. "Oh my gosh, what program do you use? We should do the Old Earth adventure ones together; they have one about spies in the 20th century—"

"I'm not interested in those programs."

"Which programs do you like, then?"

Michael's fingers curl around the chip protectively, possessively. "It's a copy of a program we had on the Shenzhou," she says at last. "Lieutenant Commander Stamets helped me salvage it from the ship's black box."

"Oh, that's amazing. What is it?"

"It was one of Captain Georgiou's favorites." She has practiced to keep her voice from snagging on the syllables of Philippa's title, and she only needs a breath's pause when she continues, "It is a simulation of the Iliad, an epic poem from Earth's ancient Greece."

"That sounds so cool! I've heard of the Iliad—isn't it about a war, or something?"

Michael forces her lips to smile faint in Tilly's direction. "Or something."

-----

As a strong tree which stood proud and graceful—having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, and was just now glowing in full bloom—is snapped by a sudden gust, and falls mightily, its glory of flowers now covered in dust, so too did Patroclus fall.

No matter what Achilles does, Patroclus falls.

Achilles knows. Achilles has gone through the motions of the story time and time again. She forbids Patroclus from going in her place. She rushes out onto the field of battle in her wake. They fight back-to-back-on the battlefield. She is always too late—by hours or by minutes or by a split second drawn out into an eternity, Patroclus still falls. It will always be Achilles' fault that Patroclus falls. She spins out strategies like the finest wool, shrieks at the gods for their malice until her voice is hoarse, soaks her hands in phantom blood and dust and weeps until bile rises in her throat and chokes her, and Patroclus still falls. 

And then she starts the program again.

She hacks the program after the twelfth try. Patroclus does not fall, and the shock of it makes her scream at the computer to end the simulation. She slides down to the floor and lies there, curled and trembling in the cold, leaf-like. Patroclus is a story, and Philippa—

Philippa fell.

Michael wipes her cheeks dry and rises to her feet, reaching to restart the program once more.

-----

"Can I play it with you?" Tilly asks.

Michael's first instinct is to snarl like a lion protecting her young, but Tilly's smile is bright and earnest, and curious besides. "If you want," she manages to say. She does not blame her voice for its reluctance, for wanting to cradle what little she has left of Philippa close, as if the stories were gold, or silver tripods miraculously crafted.

"You'll have to explain the story to me, because I don't know anything about old Greeks."

Poets were the guests of kings because stories were—are—power. Stories die if they are untold, but when given voice, they turn clumsy words to birds and bid them fly to rest heavy and piquant on human tongues. The most powerful beings in the Iliad were poets. Helen of Sparta, who told Priam the names of the Achaeans ranged before them like grains of barley settling into fresh furrows and wove the stories of heroes into undying wool, was a poet. Michael has never considered herself a storyteller, but she tries, for Tilly's sake.

"Tell me what's going on in here," Tilly mutters into her ear, fiddling with her greaves after they enter the program.

"I picked Antilochus and Thrasymedes for us. We're high-ranking Achaeans, Greek soldiers, serving under Achilles, who is one of the main heroes for the Greek side. The man armoring himself right now is Patroclus, Achilles' mentor and most trusted friend—" she breaks off then, her words failing her as her limbs do every time.

"Wait, what happens to him?" Tilly gasps. "Oh, no, Michael, does he die?"

"You'll see," Michael says hoarsely.

-----

Saru buzzes at her quarters. She lets him in, and he steps through the threshold and stands in silence, his stance uncertain, searching. Her eyes fall to the briefcase in his hand, and her lungs feel as though they have been burst and pulled from the carapace of her chest.

"Saru, no, I've told you—"

"She would want you to have this, Michael," he says, and his voice is gentle.

"You—you deserve it more than I do—"

"No." The word is clipped. "No, I don't. Michael—" he sighs in soft clicks and holds out the telescope. "This is yours—once both of yours, now yours. It was a travesty for me to take it."

Michael swallows hard. She takes the case, and the metal seems to buzz beneath her hands with the memory of old constellations and falling stars. 

"Thank you, Saru."

"Until tomorrow, Michael.”

He leaves.

-----

"They—they were in love," Antilochus whispers to Thrasymedes as they watch Achilles mourning, covering himself in dust. 

She does not know why she said that, other than the heavy knowledge that stories die when they are not told. Did anyone ever know to say that, to whisper the truth among themselves like the hiss of embers dying, like breath long escaped over the teeth of lovers lying in the sand?

Her voice breaks, more than it had when she announced Patroclus' death to the leader of the Myrmidons, and the crying and shouting is too much for her to bear right then. She calls for the computer to end the program, half-fearing that she could not be heard over the grief around her, and then she is kneeling on the floor of the simulation room, her hands shaking just so. Tilly sits down in front of her and grips her hands with warm, dry palms.

"He loved him," Michael says without looking up. “He loved him, and now he’s dead.” She is no poet—the grammar of Standard is a sloppy, broken thing in her mouth, pronouns and antecedents too imprecise for any clarity of communication, and a cloying anger wells up her throat at the dull blade of language. 

Tilly's eyes are wide, her lips working silently. "Michael, were you and Captain Georgiou—"

"No!" Michael barks, flinching at the words—too ugly, too flat, too imprecise. "I—we—"

She shakes her head silently, because words can go no further.

-----

Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles mourns.

-----

"We were together," Michael says into the dark of their room, after Tilly tells the computer to turn off the lights. "For years."

Tilly is silent for a moment. "How did you keep it a secret?"

"We didn't. Our whole ship knew, both of our families knew, Starfleet knew, everyone knew. But after she died, and I was sentenced. And they tried to make our story more—palatable." Michael's lips twist. "The heroic captain and the mutineer. Much easier than two women who cared for each other."

"That's—kind of awful."

"It is their story."

As a strong tree which stood proud and graceful—having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, and was just now glowing in full bloom—is snapped by a sudden gust, and falls mightily, so too did Philippa fall, and now what they had is covered in dust.

"Why do you go into the holosuite?" Tilly asks suddenly. "Michael, that program is hard to watch, much less—participate in. Is it to remember her, or something?"

Michael almost laughs at that—as if there were ever a time when she did not remember Philippa, the sweet lines on her face and the honey of her skin, the rumble of her laughter through the bones of her ribs, the falling. 

"Or something," she says.

She tells Tilly about the captain then—about how they had grated against each other when Michael first came onboard the Shenzhou, but quickly became close; how funny the captain was, how brilliant and sharp. It is no different than the information in her official biography, but the words still are slow to come to her, smoke-dull and inelegant.

Stories are heavy work. 

-----

Stamets and Dr. Culber sometimes are waiting outside to use the holosuite when she exits from the program. When Culber first came back, she had helped Stamets encode a simulation that could ease him back into the setting of linear time, little by little.

The lieutenant commander still comes into their shifts with red eyes and shaking hands. I still dream about him dead. I still wake up, and he's right next to me, and I still think he's dead, he had snapped at her when she first asked. That's not something that just gets better, Burnham. That's not something you can just forget.

"Where are you two going now?" Michael asks, pocketing her chip.

"A little cafe on Alpha Centauri," Culber tells her with a wink. "It was where we first fell in love."

"It was where we first met," Stamets says. "I thought you were obnoxious; there was no love to be found there." His words are not so much a correction as a fond second telling.

"Enjoy your date," she tells them warmly.

Culber's gaze is soft, and Stamets smiles, a departure from his usual single nod, and his eyes are only touched with pink today. His fingers wrap even more tightly around his husband's hand. There is recognition strung between them now. Tilly must have told them. Isn't that why stories are told, so that they can be sung time and time again until the bowl of the sky rings?

The word for glory in the Iliad is kleos. It means that which is heard. 

-----

The next time Tilly enters the program with her, Michael jumps to the funeral of Patroclus. She and Tilly sit on the rust ground and listen to the lamentations of the living, and Michael closes her eyes as Achilles sings in a shattered voice.

"It was his fault," Michael says into the wind, "that Patroclus died."

"No," Tilly says. "No, it wasn't."

"I loved her."

Tilly nods. "You love her."

She sets her hand on Michael's shoulder, and Michael slumps, stricken by the present tense. Patroclus fell on the field of battle, and Achilles lives.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Achilles lead the sacrifices out, sees the blade glint in his hand. Michael had never played the program to here before, and though she knows the story, knows the weight of words like "retribution," she is abruptly furious. She wrenches herself up and dashes to the control panel. Her fingers fly across the interface like eagles hunting for their young, eating up every line of code in their path and spitting them back out, tearing up flesh to feed the future, and the sound of her heart is lead in her ears because all she can think of is how much she hates these bitter myths, these grief lessons, because the necessity of tragedy is not the truth, only yet another story, and people should never be slaughtered for a grieving man's pride, because Philippa is dead and was—is—will always be more than her death, more than grief and anger and a love in the past tense—

Achilles releases the captives, and bids them to return as princes to Troy. 

The Achaeans mill about in confusion before Achilles orders for the funeral games to go on, and they disband, heading for the chariot races. "She never let me play Patroclus," Michael says when they are alone at last in the center of the Achaean camp. She lies back, letting her eyes flutter shut. "She would never play the story, either—we'd always end up fighting for the Trojan side, and strategizing how to win. Or sneaking Cassandra out for a picnic, or weaving with Andromache, or—or challenging Agamemnon for command of the Greeks. Challenging Odysseus to a game of chess! He—maybe it’s because it hasn’t been invented for over a thousand years, but he's so bad at chess—"

The laughter breaks out of her, unstoppable, and she turns to grin at Tilly and lets her cheeks grow wet with tears, light like the fingers of dawn.

-----

As a strong tree which stands proud and graceful, Achilles starts—

Mourning and singing and telling have ever been closely entwined, she reminds herself.

—as a tree which stands proud and graceful, having weathered many ills and many lightning-laced storms in the grip of winter, Patroclus glowed in full bloom, and the sudden gust which felled her does not diminish her glory, and when spring comes again, the flowers will grow around her. 

-----

"Burnham, wait a moment," Stamets calls after her.

He takes out a holochip from his pocket and sets it on the conference table. "I thought you might be—" he stumbles for a moment before hurrying on, "—interested in this. I had a bit of code lying around in dev to tweak into a holo program. Hugh said that I should try my hand at things other than astromycelial engineering, and I had to remind him that I actually am highly proficient in all the science disciplines. Actually, you know what? Consider it a favor to me, if you beta it."

The lieutenant leaves without further comment.

Michael picks up the clip, weighs it in her hand like a coin of bronze. She goes to the holosuite to run the program, and the gray of the walls is turned to the gold of dust in sunlight. The blue and silver of her uniform is jarring against the warmth of a Greek agora—Stamets must not have finished coding the personal costumes.

There is a poet in the center of the agora, and listeners milled around her like ants as she sang of heroes before the war, and how they were each the breath of the other. On the hills around the city, the olive trees are in bloom, their petals sweet snow.

Michael sits, and listens, and breathes.

-----

"I don't know Homer, but this—was not in Iliad," Tilly says slowly.

"How do you know that it wasn't in the Iliad?" Michael asks, brushing her curls out of her eyes. They are sitting in a Trojan courtyard, and children run all about them in clothing worn but carefully patched. They play with toy swords and laugh as they canter on wooden horses, and women with hair knotted like wasps' waists sit on the windowsills and talk about the sky and the things hidden in the mountains. "Maybe it was."

Two little girls come up to them, with spears of twigs and ivy leaves, and Michael and Tilly laugh and pretend to shield themselves.

"Would you take a story as ransom for our lives, my ladies?" Michael asks, holding up her hands in surrender.

The victorious warrior plants her spear in the ground. "What kind of story?"

"An adventure story," Tilly says. "One with heroes and monsters.

"What kind of adventure?"

Tilly pauses, and Michael jumps in. "I'll tell you." 

She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial murmur, and the girls lean in eagerly. "Once upon a time, there were two lovers who went into the desert, to save the spirits of the cliffs by breaking a cursed drought of 89 years—"

"How did they do it?" one of the girls asks.

"Tell us!" the other one says.

"Tell us!" the first girl echoes. 

Michael smiles. Her chest aches as she whispers, "With lightning."

-----

They are Antilochus and Thrasymedes and Alcimedon and Eudorus and many others besides. They end the war. They flee from a razed Troy, carrying on their backs the girls with their ivy spears. They sign a treaty, and the Hellespont is filled with ships that do not carry soldiers.

They build a city on the banks of the river Po and call it Rema Magna, and populate it with shepherds and poets and weavers and potters and singers and artists who carve joyful effigies of life on tomb stelae and priests who draw honey from bee-towns, with the Latini and Rutuli and Etrusci, and there is never a war with which to found Rome.

They sing of heroes beyond the beginnings and ends of war, of pale flowers on a strong tree, and through their tellings these things are both sweet and bitter.

Achilles lives, and tells what the poets do not.