#Do you think that empty old domain still echos with the sound of her screams?

[kitkatnerds3]

I think she should be more insane, actually.

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG175!

- Once again, I really loved how it felt like the sound effects were giving their own “statement” of the domain, by telling us (a bit in advance!) what the words were saying. You could remove Jon’s words, and it would still have been a horrifying dive into that desolated landscape, the surroundings themselves threatening you – it came to the point that the occasional clatter was inspiring dread since the noises felt like they might attract the native creature, and you really didn’t want it to come closer?

(I’m not absolutely sure about the Air Raid Siren in the background, but I thiiiink their cycles were regular, with a new round of them coming every 2 minutes or so? Really eerie to think that it had not stopped, while it wasn’t able to protect anyone from the incoming disasters since they were already there; and at the same time, they kept going… because, precisely, it was still an extinguished domain that kept extinguishing itself, that Leah was still there at this point so it could still get worse and even emptier? The signal is supposed to stop when the threat is over – it made sense that it would keep going since The Extinction was there and accomplished.)

- Things in common with previous statements dealing with cases suspected to be Extinction: the “Inheritors” as natives from this world.

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Every single shrivelled ashened face was contorted in a scream of agony, every sharp and jutting jaw cracked and twisted in an expression of horror – of understanding not just of their death, but the end of everything they knew. It was clear that they had been this way for years, if not decades. Bernadette says she was sure that nothing had moved in that dead city for a hundred years. She was mistaken. I have never envied you your position, Gertrude. I have never coveted your gifts, as I know the terrible costs that come with them. But honestly, trying to get a description of these… things, these “Inheritors” from Bernadette Delcour made me wish I could just pull the image from her lips, like you would have been able to. In the end, she would say nothing of them, except that [STATIC]: “There is nothing done in the history of humanity that deserves the things that come after us.” […] It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place.”

(MAG149, Judith O’Neill) “There were no people in there, but… that’s not the same thing as it being empty. Instead, there were… figures. From a distance, they looked like human beings, standing impossibly still. But getting closer… quickly revealed the lie. It was just the rough shapes, cobbled together out of a hundred different pieces of garbage: a broken metal clotheshorse for a ribcage; a… plastic chair leg for an arm; rusted screws for teeth. In some cases, it looked like someone had gone through a lot of effort to match anatomy with construction. I saw one with a broken water-cooler where its stomach would be, and another had a pair of oxygen tanks standing in for lungs. They were completely still, but there was something about them that made my mouth dry up, and my mind scream to run. [STATIC] It didn’t feel like they were statues. It felt like they were choosing not to move.”

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Fauna: the thing that lives. Something lives in the Anthropocene age: [METALLIC GROAN] not a twisted reflection of a natural world, [RUMMAGING CLATTER] not a parasite or a scavenger or a cockroach, but a native. [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] Something born in the sloping shells of sagging concrete towers, that tastes the tang of rusted iron in the air and knows that it is home. [RUMMAGING IN SMALL ITEMS] Something that does not know or care what a human is, any more than mankind thought of the creatures that once lived in the shells they found on the beach. [SCUTTLING] It moves through the stacks of garbage like a beetle through filth, and its smile is all-too familiar, though its eyes are dark and empty. [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] It cannot be seen in its entirety, for it keeps itself covered, [SCUTTLING] but its long, unfurling tongue may be seen emerging, pink and bristling with long, hair-like taste buds, [CLATTER] hunting for something old enough to eat. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] [METALLIC GROAN] It whispers to itself in the dark, and sounds like snippets of old toothpaste commercials, and adverts to join the army. It is hard to tell if there is more than one, [METALLIC GROAN] but either there are several of them of different sizes, or there is just the one, and it is getting bigger. [RUMMAGING, SCUTTLING] [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] It is our replacement, and it is welcome to the world. […] [Leah] ignores the burning pain in her forearm, where the thing’s rough tongue has torn a section of her skin clean off.”

… Technically, there was something facepalm-worthy to the fact that one of the last living things from the old world was a seagull, but also:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Fauna: a mouldering seagull. [BIRD CRYING IN THE DISTANCE] Larger than any related specimen to be found before the Anthropocene age, this bird has been rendered flightless by the tightly woven plastic netting, [CLATTER] that winds around and around its torso, digging into the skin beneath the feathers, and bulging over the strange lumps and tumours that cover it. Its feathers have turned an oily black, and its vestigial eyes are pale and sightless, [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] relying instead on the sounds its prey makes as they traverse the noisy junkpiles of discarded landscape. Its beak has become hard and its edges are serrated, allowing it to tear apart the tin cans and hard plastics that shield its food with ease. Its legs are long, and many-jointed, allowing it to move across the uneven ground, and its throat is blocked with concrete – preventing it from crying and letting it move amongst the ruins in complete silence. It nests in the rusted-out hollows of fleeing cars, constructing intricate shelters for its young, out of corpse-hair and wiring. Its eggs are rusty, covered in slime, and its chicks are born with plastic rings around their necks. They smell like ammonia and salt, and their name is meaningless, as there is no longer such a thing as the sea.”

… AOUCH for 1°) what happened to it, how it… “transformed” as a species due to everything human-related that had been inflicted to it, 2°) especially with the chicks “born with plastic rings around their necks” – that was a terrifying image, indeed.

(So, were the cries of birds we could hear in the background belonging to the Inheritors, or other birds, since the seagull had concrete in its throat “preventing it from crying”?)

- There was something absolutely haunting to the statement in the rhythm itself: the professionalism of the catalogue vs. the slight despair of the parts dedicated to Leah, between the sections she was writing. And the part with the rib!! Jon’s narration slowed down, dragged, sounded captivated by the rib, and really made you feel like there was a big mystery with that bone, something important?

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Item: [SQUELCH] a forgotten bone. … Whooose is this…? Pale white and… stained with thick black tar. A human bone, that much is… clear, too big to be a child’s, at least. Can a bone seem familiar…? The shape of it echoing through your mind, like a… face seen only in dreams…? [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] It may be followed up to a ribcage, still sticky in places with soapy cadaver fat, and closing around a crumpled beer can where the heart should be. There’s a skull as well, yellowing in the thick dust of the open air. Strange… Everything here is either bone-dry from relentless heat, or damp through from decomposition and stagnant decay. Lifeless yet decaying. The world we’ve left behind… Leah considers the bones for some time. Does she know them…? Are they hers? If she had been quicker, more forceful in her warnings, might they still be alive? Her pencil is broken, but her notes, her warnings from this new world are far from complete. She snaps off another rib, [STATIC RISES] and continues writing.”

Was it reminding Jon of his own discarded rib (and was it a nudge/an attack on him from The Extinction)? Was it Leah’s own ribcage, as she had transformed without noticing? Was it the reminder of the death of other people? Was it the “beginning” of an Inheritor? No idea, but the picture of Leah ultimately discarding the questions to snap a bone and use it as a new pen to keep up her work was very striking.

- Also haunting: the fact that Leah’s catalogue almost “humanised” inanimate objects, since they were described with their illogical aspects (the bulb still emitting light) and… almost told the story of what has happened by themselves, and at the same time didn’t at all? But the statement was about a present situation (an Extinct world) with remnants of what used to be – we could recognise the human activities which had caused some of these disasters, we were told of the purpose these items used to serve… and it was all senseless in that new world. It was really chilling that the “Anthropocene era”, here, wasn’t described by what was living and prospering in it, but with the death, decay and annihilation that had resulted from it.

- Obligatory HEAVY SNICKER because of the umbrella:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Item: [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] a laughable umbrella. Look at it! [FAINT METALLIC CLINKING] What does it think it’s doing here, lying there, broken, skeletal? [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] There hasn’t been rain in fifty years. […] Stupid umbrella…! Does it think there is a monsoon coming? Does it even remember what a cloud of water vapor looks like? [FAINT METALLIC CLINKING] The clouds that pass now are oily, and stink of sulphur, waiting for you to stop paying attention before they climb down your throat and settle in your lungs. Perhaps this idiot apparatus thinks it can protect from the relentless heat of the sun! But its fabric is torn and ruined, hanging from the snapped metal limbs, desperate for a breeze to stir it from its… complete stillness. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] Take a moment to sneer at this corpse of an umbrella, [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] and wish for a moment you had water enough within you to spit on it.”

… Did an umbrella hurt you in your childhood, Jonny.

Hilariousness aside (it really worked with Jon focusing all of his hatred on that item, you know Jon would be the kind to have a visceral negative opinion over something mundane), it… really worked as an allegory both for Leah’s work and for Jon’s journey. It’s about a damaged item which has lost its purpose in a new world, which can’t serve its initial purpose anymore, which exists but can’t do anything anymore. Just like Leah, writing the state of the new world in her “report on everything for nobody” (it’s too late, The Extinction has already happened), and Jon, only able to describe the horrors of the new world.

- Leah sticking to her catalogue even though the disaster already happened really reminded me of Jon in his function as Archivist (Jonah had called him “a living chronicle of terror” in MAG160, for example). Why is Jon compelled to “pour out” the domains’ statements? We still don’t know why and what that does exactly: is he creating more terror through the tapes, in the same way that Leah’s catalogue could technically be used to spread the terror of the Extinction world?

- ;_; I really really wasn’t expecting an Extinction domain, big surprise!

I really like how the question of it being “real” or not real enough was handled: when Adelard first described it in MAG134, it made a lot of sense as a Fear, and even more as a Fear strengthened by contemporary feelings (with the growing awareness of the destruction of humans being caused by humans themselves).

(MAG175) MARTIN: What was it like? ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: This place’s… [INHALE] Its statement. ARCHIVIST: Nothing too surprising. It’s a domain designed to eke fear out of those afraid of a world… [INHALE] destroyed by human hands, it, uh… It dwells on it. MARTIN: Hm. [SILENCE] [WET SQUEAK] … So it was real, then? The Extinction. ARCHIVIST: Of course it was real…! A–at least in the sense that… it was a thing people feared. Whether it was strong enough in its own right to be considered at a level with Smirke’s Fourteen or… whether it was on its way to getting there, I… [SHUFFLING] Maybe. This sort of thing is always… muddy.

And I really like how Jon was nuanced about it: acknowledging that it’s a real thing since it’s a real fear, but that it’s harder to evaluate whether it was on the same level as Smirke’s Fourteen when The Change happened: in a lot of ways, it feels like Smirke’s taxonomy had arbitrarily shaped the divisions in Fourteen for UK-based people and that for the next two centuries, monsters and avatars mostly referred to that division to organise themselves. The major difference, maybe, is that we never really met a human who decided to serve a fear they identified as “The Extinction” and turned into a servant of it, terrorising people through it to feed it in turn, and trying to shape the world in that image: Adelard had mentioned that he wasn’t sure that The Extinction was hiring avatars yet (MAG113: “I don’t know if my little ‘theoretical’ is strong enough yet to start taking avatars, but this one, as you’ve no doubt guessed, turned out to be Terminus.”), but it didn’t mean a lot – maybe there were already avatars out there and he hadn’t met them, and maybe if Adelard had written and propagated his ideas about The Extinction, a few people would have decided to serve it because they feared and reveled in it in turn.

Anyway, I like how Jon’s words didn’t exactly feel like a big “reveal”, more like a confirmation, since… a lot of these interrogations and hypotheses had been brushed upon by Adelard, Peter and Simon in season 4:

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “This Fear is new. This is a fear of extinction. Of change. It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place. Mankind will warp the world so much it kills us all, and leaves only a thousand years of plastic behind. Technology will strip us of what it means to be human, and leave us something alien, and cold. We will press a button, that in a moment, will destroy everything we have ever been. Animals are witnessing the end of their entire species within a single generation. These are new fears, Gertrude, and a new Power is rising to consume them. The Extinction. The Terrible Change. The-Future-Without-Us.”

(MAG144) MARTIN: Another… statement. Another side to… Peter’s “Extinction”. I think. I… Y– I– [HUFF] I, I couldn’t follow some of his reasoning, but I think it was about… nuclear weapons, or… or maybe doomsday’s weapons…? In keeping with the theme, I suppose.

(MAG149) MARTIN: Looks like Gertrude’s handwriting? Start of a letter to… Dekker, thanking him for sending Judith to her, though… it doesn’t look like it was ever finished or sent. [PAPER RUSTLING] “I assume this is another one he was trying to use to prove The Extinction? It… certainly has something in it. Mankind’s trash giving rise to something terrible. And again, fear of the other, inanimate humanoid figures. That’s all very… Stranger, isn’t it?” [SIGH] [LOW]… It’s never simple, is it…?

(MAG151) SIMON: “When is a new Power born?” Well; when does it feel like its birth would be right? When enough creatures suffer a terror of it that feels distinct, that feels truly its own… then it would probably feel right for it to emerge into its own. Or perhaps there’s a ritual, if it feels right to enact some sort of birthing ceremony, some… apocalyptic midwifery. MARTIN: And how close is it, do you think? SIMON: Can’t be sure! Peter thinks very close indeed, what with all the current “hubbub”, and I’m inclined to agree. […] Peter seems convinced that The Extinction is different. That its actual birth will be as bad or worse as another power fully manifesting. He believes its advent will be heralded by all sorts of disasters and catastrophes, and global upheavals, and whatnot. That kind of things. MARTIN: Sounds like a rich feeding ground. SIMON: Well, exactly! Peter, however, seems to think that it will upset the balance that we all have an awful lot invested in. And he’s not at all certain the world as we understand will come out the other side.

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “My first assumption would have been The Flesh, based on the cannibalism and strangeness of the bodies involved, but… something about this idea of some sort of “famine world”, its location within a made-man ruin, the whole… societal aspect of it… I’d be inclined to chalk this up as a genuine Extinction manifestation. But I don’t know. Am I drawing wild conclusions, trying to fit the account into my own preconceptions? Keen to know your feelings on the matter.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “so… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore; or perhaps the birth of such things is longer and more complicated than I believed. For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you.”

(MAG159) PETER: Maybe that’s why, when I crossed paths with Adelard Dekker, we ended up talking, and he told me his theory of The Extinction – something that stayed with me even after he died pursuing it. The thing is: the Loneliness I crave, that fills my heart with that… reassuring unease, relies on distance from other people. But a world without people at all, or at least anything I would recognise as people… it is meaningless. Without the lighted window in the distance, how am I to see myself apart from it? No. Such a world would be terribly dull, and scares me in a very different way. A fear I am happy to offer up, of course, but one that I would prefer not come to pass. My instinct was much like the others: I thought that if I could complete my ritual first, then the potential birth of the Dreadful Change would be meaningless.”

So ;w; Adelard was right and wrong at the same time. There was such a thing as a “Fear Of The Extinction”, strong enough to become some people’s living nightmares. But at the same time, the division into Fourteen or Fifteen didn’t really work anyway, so it was doomed to be “muddy”, as Jon said.

… What is interesting is that:

* … “Beholding” is still all-powerful in that world – granting Jon, its “pupil”, way more powers than any other, and ruling over the domains and the fears.

* Jon is still sticking to the 14+1 division. He described domains with the names from Smirke’s taxonomy during the journey – he’s aware that the blob of terror is multi-facetted, yet still clings to the categorisation.

* Due to Jon being confident when he was describing the domains as belonging to x or y Dread Power, I thought that Jonah’s invocation in MAG160 had shaped the world with these neat categories:

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Bring all that is fear, and all that is terror, and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!”

So, the other Thirteen Fears, under Beholding’s reign (“All under The Eye’s auspices, of course – we mustn’t forget our roots.”), and Jonah specifically schemed to get Jon marked by the Fears following the list of Fourteen to prepare that ritual, in the hope of avoiding the Fifteenth (“All Fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new Powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge.”).

… Yet, at least one out-of-the-box Fear managed to still sneak in through. Which means that:

1°) Jonah didn’t exactly create what he wanted! The Extinction is there with the others anyway. As Jon had told Martin in MAG160:

(MAG160) MARTIN: I, I don’t know if it’s just here, or if it– ARCHIVIST: No. … No, it’s everywhere… They’re all here, now. I can feel… all of it.

They’re “all here now”.

2°) Jonah’s ritual didn’t really work on Jonah’s terms. Was it really necessary for Jon to get marked by the Fourteen Fears, would like, ten have been enough anyway, as long as there was a sufficient amount of aspects, to get all the fears into our world? Did the ritual “accidentally” count as an Extinction mark on Jon, allowing it to get brought through too? Was the ritual actually dependent on Jon’s own feelings, and The Extinction got pulled in because he still thought it could be a genuine threat? (Jon began to doubt about it while receiving MAG157’s letter, with Adelard confessing that he might have misunderstood, and Jon feeling like Martin had been lied to; but Peter admitted to him that he was genuinely afraid of The Extinction in MAG159, thus confirming to Jon that he had been honest on that part.)

(But damnit, I was “hoping” (that’s a strong word) for The-Extinction-not-being-invoked being a potential way to reverse the equilibrium and undo the apocalypse in a way or another… And nope, not an option if it’s already there with the others, uh.)

- Wow, Jon felt mercilessly right about the state of the world / whether The Extinction was a legitimate fear as something that could have become concrete without supernatural interferences:

(MAG175) MARTIN: But what about the real world, were they right? ARCHIVIST: … I–I’m not sure I follow. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: I mean… Right, if none, if none of this had happened, if the world had just… carried on? [WET SQUEAK] What would have happened, was… was all that fear justified? [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I can’t know the future, Martin, not even a hypothetical one. MARTIN: But… you know what was going on, what was happening. [WET SQUEAK, SHUFFLING] O–out of everyone, you’re the best place, you–you’ve got the info to make a pretty damn educated guess…! ARCHIVIST: … I, I don’t know what you want me to say, Martin. Yes, i–it was bad, worse than most people thought and [INHALE] things were only going to deteriorate. Was the end of humanity actually imminent? I… Probably not? But we were well on the way and… it would have been the end of an awful lot of things.

It’s a bit of a change for Martin to ask about what-could-have-been this season: Jon has usually been the one to dwell on that, with Martin stopping him from spiralling (MAG161: “Can you imagine…? If we’d had this…” “But we didn’t, though, did we.”). It makes sense, though, since The Extinction was closer to Martin’s own storyline and the time he spent researching it in season 4, and the fact that, both in MAG174 and MAG175, we’ve seen he still had frustrations regarding that whole arc of his:

(MAG174) SIMON: But I’m not one to tell you how to live your eternity. MARTIN: … No. You’re not. Because I’m done listening to you! SIMON: I’m sorry? I’m not sure I follow. MARTIN: All those lies you told me… You helped to do this, you turned the world into your… your playground! SIMON: Hum… Not to be a pedant, but if you recall, I was actually doing a favour for Peter. And if Peter had won, none of this would have happened. Also, not to make excuses but they weren’t exactly lies, just… oversimplifications of complicated truths! And guesses. … A lot of guesses. [FOOTSTEPS] … A–almost all guesses really, now I come to think about it. MARTIN: Shut up! I don’t care. SIMON: Goodness! We’re rather tetchy, aren’t we?

(MAG175) MARTIN: [TINY SIGH] So Peter was lying. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] To a degree. But, mostly, he was just like anyone else who tried to take the scope of human terror and… package it neatly into little theories. All his talk of “emergence” and “birthing a new power”… it’s just people being scared.

… Mainly: Martin feeling cheated, feeling like he had been manipulated and lied to both by Peter and Simon. I’m glad that his own feelings are resurfacing a bit lately, because he has reasons to feel angry of his own…

(- There is also Elias, in the list of people who lied/misled him: Martin had gone to ask him whether or not Peter was telling the truth in MAG138, and Elias had pushed him in that direction. Martin doesn’t have to hate Elias “only” for the pain he inflicted on Jon and for destroying the world – Elias made Martin a cog in his scheme to bring forth the apocalypse, and that’s enough to warrant Martin’s wrath. In that exchange:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: … I don’t know how kindly any god would look upon what we’ve done. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Thanks for that. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … Sorry.

I wonder whether Martin felt attacked because he was seeking comfort in the idea of a benevolent divinity (and was denied it, because humanity as a whole has done… too many awful things), or because he personally felt that “we” as including (Jon and) him specifically – as an unwilling participant in the mechanism that ended up bringing the apocalypse, separating the Archives Team and preventing them to deal with Peter&Elias together and ultimately used to lure Jon into The Lonely?)

- Overall, I really liked the talk about religion:

(MAG175) MARTIN: … Jon. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: … Do you know if… like… gods, religion, the afterlife, all that stuff. Do you know if any of that was real? ARCHIVIST: … Really rolling out the big questions today! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Sorry! It’s just… [WET SQUEAK] This place just brings it out in me, I guess. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: … If there is a god, or gods, or an existence beyond this world… The Eye can’t see it. It sees the fear of it, but… nothing of its truth. [SILENCE] MARTIN: So… is that a no…? ARCHIVIST: It’s an “I don’t know” – although… [INHALE] People’s faith… [EXHALE] It hasn’t saved them. Not here. MARTIN: … True. ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Why do you ask? Didn’t think you were at all religious. MARTIN: Oh, I’m not. [WET SQUEAK] Mum was, but I… I–I don’t know. With everything going on, it… certainly feels less far-fetched…! Besides, at this point, I’d take any help we can get. ARCHIVIST: … I don’t know how kindly any god would look upon what we’ve done.

Because it didn’t exclude the idea that any god(s) existed – the show is not claiming prerogative to answer that question – and provided an explanation for Jon not knowing that in a way that made sense in-universe. Jon deals in information linked to fears, not in absolute and metaphysical truths, and so he only has hypotheses to provide in that area.

I also love how ;; It really fits for Martin’s mom to have been religious but him being less categorical. Goes well with his overall sense of guilt, especially when it comes to his mother, uh?

Also, SOB that Adelard was probably in Martin’s mind since:

(MAG157) “This is the last time you will hear from me. You must trust me on that and not come looking. Not that you would; I know you’re too smart for sentimentality, especially after what I have to tell you, but I feel it worth saying nonetheless. Perhaps I’m simply prevaricating, trying to cling on to a few more precious minutes of life – but that’s not me. I know what awaits me, and must have no hesitation in going to my reward. [SCOFF] I know you’ve never had much patience for my faith, but perhaps it will provide you some small peace knowing I face my death gladly, knowing I have done my duty before God.”

We don’t know whether Martin was made aware of this statement (it was sent to Jon), but Martin had read MAG156’s statement in which Adelard had referred to his faith, so he knew Adelard was religious. Setting-wise: they were crossing an Extinction domain, and the previous Extinction “specialist” had ultimately died with the conviction and peace of mind that he would join the afterlife with his God… so I’m guessing that case was probably dwelling in Martin’s mind. (And potentially: whether his mother was also likely to have reached peace.)

- Jon reaaally tried to answer that question about religion, since he used his powers – we could hear static:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: If I try, [STATIC RISES] I can… see the edges of reality, but… I can’t hold its full scope in my mind. [STATIC DECREASES] MARTIN: And beyond it? ARCHIVIST: Beyond what? Reality? [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: … Yeah. [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I don’t know! Maybe nothing. [STATIC FADES] [WET SQUEAK] MARTIN: … Jon. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: … Do you know if… like… gods, religion, the afterlife, all that stuff. Do you know if any of that was real? ARCHIVIST: … Really rolling out the big questions today! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Sorry! It’s just… [WET SQUEAK] This place just brings it out in me, I guess. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: … If there is a god, or gods, or an existence beyond this world… The Eye can’t see it. It sees the fear of it, but… nothing of its truth. [STATIC FADES] [SILENCE] MARTIN: So… is that a no…?

It also came with a few reminders regarding his powers. Jon had already pointed out multiple times that he can’t see the future:

(MAG164) MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see.

(MAG169) MARTIN: Oh, it’s not just your revenge though, is it? Destroying her… it would help all those people in there, wouldn’t it? ARCHIVIST: … Maybe? It’s… [INHALE] Like I said, I can’t see the future. It wouldn’t free them, if that’s what you’re asking. “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place.

(MAG175) MARTIN: What would have happened, was… was all that fear justified? [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I can’t know the future, Martin, not even a hypothetical one.

And that The Eye’s powers are limited and fundamentally biased:

(MAG140) ARCHIVIST: … Why am I always the last to know about these things? BASIRA: By this point, I just assume the Eyeball tells you. ARCHIVIST: That would imply it tells me anything useful. But no, I’m stuck knowing [STATIC] how your year eight PE teacher died.

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Hm. [SIGH] I’ve, uh… I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, after what happened with Daisy last week. About… what I can do. What I am. What feels… right. I’ve found a– [SIGH] I went back to Eli– er, Peter’s office. To that box of tapes; started rifling through. And I started to try and pay attention to the ones I… wasn’t drawn to. The tapes I instinctively wanted to discard. [SIGH] There was one, this one, that my hand… pulled back from. I–I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up. Even now, I’m… [AUDIBLE FORCED SMILE] struggling to press play…! I am the avatar of Awful Knowledge And Revealed Secrets… so what does it not want me to know…? [LONG SIGH]

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: Martin, I have the whole scope of human knowledge available to me and… [SIGH] I’d struggle to give you a simple answer to most of this stuff. And even if I am omniscient, I’m starting to realise that… doesn’t mean objective. [WET SQUEAK] MARTIN: Hm. … [SIGH] I guess it’s hard not to bring your own baggage to this sort of thing. ARCHIVIST: I don’t know if it could even exist without the baggage…! You want to talk about psychological projection, try viewing the metaphysical world through the lens of a being that is, by its very nature, a reflection of your own obsessions and fears.

So mmmm… Are we heading towards a confirmation that Jon feeling like he can’t do anything “positive” or “better” is directly caused by The Eye limiting the perception he has of his own options, like The Eye had tried to prevent him from listening to Eric’s tape which informed of a way to cut ties with The Eye?

- … I do disagree with Martin that Jon was beginning to sound like Simon, because REALLY, he sounded a LOT like Oliver:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “You know, of course, where I am. But know that, even you, will all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever. All – things – end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose… only brings you closer to it.”

(MAG175) MARTIN: So you don’t think it would have been the end of the world? ARCHIVIST: “The end of the world”…! Now there’s a concept. Everything ends, I suppose. [SHUFFLING] Even this place. Can’t last forever. Eventually… it will die as well. MARTIN: … You’re starting to sound like Simon.

For someone who can’t see the future, Jon really seems to have ingrained Oliver’s ideas of The End: that it would win, that it would catch up on everyone, that it had to happen to exist as a fear. As soon as the end of MAG168, Jon had accepted Oliver’s idea that the victims of his domains would indeed die as announced (“I feel badly for those that exist in his domain, o–of course, I do, but… At least, their suffering will be over, eventually.”) although… it had not been demonstrated?

So if we’re talking about biases: did Oliver’s conviction contaminate Jon and is it currently making Jon believe his stance? Because Oliver was convinced that The End would kill… but he’s an avatar of his patron. Of course he’ll believe in its all-powerfulness. It doesn’t mean it’s true.

- Amongst the lighter stuff, I’m laughing that Martin has now learned to weaponise the fact that distances and the laws of time&space escape him — which was usually played against him, and Jon even teased him about his difficulty understanding…

(MAG163) MARTIN: … Oh, I’m knackered. ARCHIVIST: Are you? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] MARTIN: I– … Hm. … Well. Okay, well, no, no, I suppose not; but, I–I think I should be. ARCHIVIST: Yup! MARTIN: How long have we been walking? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Fourteen hours and… twenty-three minutes. MARTIN: What, seriously? ARCHIVIST: Yes. I… don’t think it means much out here, though. MARTIN: We should… probably rest. ARCHIVIST: Maybe. I… I don’t know, I– … I don’t know if we can – “rest”. It feels more like… hm, “waiting”. MARTIN: [SIGH] […] ARCHIVIST: [DISTANT] Try to keep up! MARTIN: Yeah, yeah…

(MAG164) MARTIN: How much further do we still need to go? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: A long way. Through many dark and awful places…

(MAG167) MARTIN: Anyway, my “flesh prison” [CHUCKLE] would like to stop for a bit. How far until the next… “domain”? ARCHIVIST: A while. If you want to stop, it’s as good a place as any. MARTIN: Nah, I just… need a moment. [SIGH] One where I’m not just… relentlessly pushing forward. ARCHIVIST: [LONG EXHALE] Alright. We can stop.

(MAG174) MARTIN: [SIGH] … [BAG JOSTLING] Is it much further? ARCHIVIST: [SMALL CHUCKLE] Yes. MARTIN: Urgh…! ARCHIVIST: I’m not entirely sure what you were expecting, it’s The Vast. The clue is in the name! MARTIN: Yes, alright…! ARCHIVIST: Just be glad that this is one of the domains that actually has ground to walk on. MARTIN: Whatever. [DISTANT LOW-PITCHED IMPACT, FOLLOWED BY GUSTS OF WIND] S–so how far are we from the other side? And–and don’t say time and space don’t work here, that’s a cop-out and you know it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Fine! Three days. MARTIN: Thank you. [SILENCE] … Wait. Wait, what counts as a day? ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLING] What an excellent question! MARTIN: Oh my go–! You can be infuriating sometimes, you know that?

… — to take his well-deserved break this time:

(MAG175) MARTIN: You know what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] I am sitting down. ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] Are you… sure, that thing is… That’s not in great shape. MARTIN: Neither am I. I have been on my feet for a literally uncountable amount of time.

He’s right! He has learned! They’ve indeed been walking for a “literally uncountable amount of time” <3

- Loved the couch, loved the scene overall:

(MAG175) [FOOTSTEPS] [BAG JOSTLING] [SHUFFLING] [CREAKING, WITH DAMP SPLOSHES] MARTIN: Mmhph… ARCHIVIST: [CLIPPED] How is it? MARTIN: … Great…! It’s great. [WET SQUEAK] Lovely couch. ARCHIVIST: Right. Well. Rest up, I suppose…! [SILENCE] MARTIN: It’s two-seater…! ARCHIVIST: Yes it is! [WET SQUEAK] … Hard pass. Thank you. [AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] [SILENCE] [WET SQUEAK]

* You could SEE Martin’s blank face, dying inside, regretting his choice with his “great”.

* The “splosh” sounds whenever Martin was moving were absolutely AWFUL =D

* Jon probably knew exactly what that couch was made of.

* Jon, you COWARD, you could have sat in his lap!! (I thought it was the case since there was some shuffling and their voices sounded closer afterwards, but no, Anil-confirmed that Jon stayed standing, aww.)

- Iiiiii wonder whether Jon being keen to give Martin his break had to do with him already knowing that Daisy&Basira were close. ;;

- Okay, so. It’s coming. We already know that Daisy’s case was… not good, Jon already knew that it had gotten worse and that Basira had been pulled into it:

(MAG160) MARTIN: Some–somehow, I don’t think Daisy will be worried about “jurisdictions”…! ARCHIVIST: I– [SIGH] I don’t think she’d come here. [RATTLING SOUND] Doesn’t look like this place has been used for years. MARTIN: [POINTEDLY] And if she does? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … Well. At least, we’ll know where she is. MARTIN: Wh…! [NERVOUS CHUCKLE] ARCHIVIST: Besides, I’m more worried about the other Hunters. Or the… “Sasha”-thing. Last I heard, they still hadn’t found any bodies. [INHALE] A lot of destruction, a lot of blood… [EXHALE] But that’s it. [MORE WOOD SOUNDS] MARTIN: … You think they’re still out there. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: Hopefully a long way out there. … But I think we’re okay.

(MAG164) MARTIN: Okay – okay, okay, ‘kay, let’s… let’s try something a little bigger, then. ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] Alright. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Is Basira alive? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN: Is she… in… o–one of these places? [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s alive. Out there, not… trapped in a–a hellscape, but… moving. [STATIC DECREASES] Hunting. She’s… she’s looking for Daisy. She’s a few steps behind. MARTIN: And Daisy? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Bestial. Brutal. [STATIC DECREASES] [INHALE] Carving her way through the domains of other Powers, following the scent of blood. … Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry… MARTIN: What’s Basira going to do? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: She… thinks she’s going to kill Daisy. Like she promised. [STATIC DECREASES] But she’s conflicted. MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see. MARTIN: O–kay. Good to know.

(MAG175) MARTIN: [SIGH] Let’s get out of here. This place is making me a bit too… existential. [WET SQUEAK] [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: Wait. MARTIN: What? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Where we’re going, the, uh… the next “domain”, I… I’ve been meaning to tell you, but it’s… well… [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: Spit it out, Jon. ARCHIVIST: Basira and Daisy. We’re close. MARTIN: Wait, what? Wait, really? B– Th–that’s brilliant! What are we waiting for, let’s go! ARCHIVIST: Uh, y–yeah, i–it’s… It’s not… it’s not going to be easy, things aren’t… good. MARTIN: Oh my goodness, really? And here was me thinking the apocalypse was going oh-so-swimmingly! ARCHIVIST: Yes, alright, I just meant… MARTIN: I–I know what you meant! I can still be keen to see our friends! ARCHIVIST: … True. MARTIN: Besides, we can help them now. [SHUFFLING] [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Yeah. [SILENCE] [BAG JOSTLING] … Yeah.

* I’m having both fluffy feelings and sigh-worthy feelings regarding Martin saying he has “friends” because:

(MAG170) MARTIN: You, you are Martin Blackwood; yes. You–you didn’t choose to be here. Jon is coming. I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not lonely anymore, I am not lonely anymore! [SHAKY BREATHING] I want to have friends, I… no, I have friends. I’m… I’m in love, eh! I am in love, and I will not forget that, I will – not – forget.

;; Are you sure, honey.

Though, technically: Melanie had listened to him and calmed down in MAG118, following his plan. Basira trusted him a bit towards the end of season 4 and had been a bit softer towards him with the death of his mother. Daisy and him managed to talk in MAG142 (although Martin had to reject her and deny that they were getting along due to Peter’s presence two episodes later). There were embryos of something, I… kinda hope we could see that flourish?

- My hypothesis regarding Daisy&Basira would be: Daisy still a savage beast (like we heard during The Unknowing, pre-Coffin, and when she turned back into one again in MAG158). She might still be after Julia and/or Trevor, depending if they were still alive (we know, at least, that their bodies weren’t found by the police and since the Not!Them was still Not!Sasha, it hadn’t taken either of them). Basira’s degree of “freedom” is a big question: is she able to not be tied to a domain thanks to her connection to The Eye? Or is the pursuit of Daisy, never-ending, torturing her with the promise she made to Daisy to kill her, a Hunt domain by itself? The Hunt is about the chase, and the “innocent” pursuit turning people into Hunters has been a reoccurring thing, so… Basira could have been taken over / “imprisoned” by and in Daisy’s hunt?

- Whether someone dies soon (there… are huge red flags for Daisy, she asked to be killed when she lost herself 18 episodes ago and she had an arc about her own choice and accountability in season 4), I can’t help but think that we’re getting Team Archive members soon? It’s been established that Jon is limited by his own perceptions, and Martin has been considering and clinging to the idea of help:

(MAG164) MARTIN: But I actually meant the whole… being friends thing? I mean, I don’t see why– ARCHIVIST: Martin, she’s… a cruel… vicious monster! MARTIN: Yes. Yes, she is. But who else is there? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH]

(MAG166) MARTIN: Just, what do you want? ANNABELLE: I want to help you, of course. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … No. Thank you. ANNABELLE: It’s a hard place to find yourself in, maybe I can be of some… assistance…! MARTIN: You can assist me by giving the… “creepy phone” thing a rest…! ANNABELLE: He is more powerful here than he’s ever been, isn’t he? [PAUSE] And you’re not sure what that means for you. MARTIN: [INHALE] I’m hanging up now.

What Jon and Martin would need is probably… other perspectives. There is still Helen running around (and she has the means to follow Basira too, the same way she can follow Jon&Martin, since Basira also traversed the Distortion’s corridors to return to the Institute after MAG135); Melanie&Georgie are somewhere (at the Panopticon already? On the other side of the crack at Hill Top Road? Hidden within Helen’s corridors?); and now Basira&Daisy’s hunt might come to a close. Daisy doesn’t have a lot of chances to survive, but I don’t think we’re done with Basira, given how she got the worst of it during season 4 (she wasn’t the only one getting manipulated by Elias, but unlike Jon, she didn’t achieve any small victories; she didn’t manage to protect anyone at all).

There is only The Spiral and The Hunt left when it comes to domains, both could get crammed into MAG176 since some of their agents are roaming around a bit more freely and we’re entering the hiatus afterwards (it could be a way to make Arc I the journey through the domains, and reaching the Panopticon starting Act II), so… we’ll see. Arc I could end with Daisy’s death, with a reunion, or with Helen pulling someone into her corridors by force ;;

We have currently a big opposition between Jon’s cautiousness, slight despair, and conviction that he can’t help anyone; and Martin’s hope (sometimes expressing itself as frustration) that they could do something positive, that Jon’s powers could help them. So far, it feels like Jon’s stance has been winning, as he demonstrated to Martin that there was “no better”.

But: it’s also true that Martin managed to pull himself out of the Lonely House’s influence with the tape recorder’s and Jon’s combined help. Jon has been revealed to be able to eradicate avatars/monsters with his ability to turn the Fearful into the Afraid. Jon had previously managed to use his compulsion as a way to free someone from a Fear’s influence: he compelled Tim to centre him and made him aware of reality in MAG119, and he made Martin see him in MAG159. So… there is still a tiny tiny hope that he could do something positive regarding Daisy (even if Basira still has to kill her afterwards).

I LIKED DAISY POST-COFFIN, I’ve never been expecting her to Live Forever with the crimes and abominations she committed, I still don’t expect her to survive for long anyway, but I’m not ready to see her goooo ;___;

- … last point is “????” and “!!!!” and I wanted to put emphasis on it, because.

THERE WAS A SOUND BETWEEN THE TWO TAPE-SEQUENCES IN THIS EP???

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Right…! [CLICK.] [TINY SHUFFLING] [CLICK–] [FOOTSTEPS, PUNCTUATED BY SOME JINGLING AND CLATTER] MARTIN: You know what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] I am sitting down.

That’s new and ???? – usually, there is only the… void? A bass sound, but nothing else.

But there was definitely some shuffling in-between, and WHAT WAS IT?? I’m not excluding that it could be an editing mistake (Jon&Martin’s footsteps beginning a few seconds earlier, for example, without the crunch of the ground), but if it’s not and it was intentional… is this confirming that we-the-listener are listening alongside someone listening to the tape after the recordings, and not during the recordings themselves? The beginning of MAG079 had hinted at that, with Martin’s pre-recorded poem getting written over by Tim&Martin’s recording (+ the overall fact that we hear the [CLICK] of the tapes: if we were only listening to the sound of the tapes, we wouldn’t hear the tape recorders clicking on and off, since that is not a sound that we can hear on the magnetic band itself). Who is listening? Why would we hear them now? Are we coming closer to an answer or a big hint about that…?

  … MAG176’s title definitely puts Daisy, Hunters and/or more generally The Hunt to mind, and Daisy’s struggle during the second half of season 4. Regarding the more “classic” meaning, though: is it about Daisy&Basira’s relationship? Is it about the “statement” of the domain (if there is one), in a biological meaning?

[motherofthechaoschildren]

The Forgotten

It began with a silence that was deafening. You did it but at what cost? Echoes of soldier’s footsteps running down the corridor reach your ears. Twitching your nose sniffs the blood, fear, and evil in the palace. Backing away from the still form on the floor, you hide behind a curtain. You know you shouldn’t leave it here. But there isn’t anything you can do... this was your mission. You watch as the door opens and the soldiers file in one by one. Leaning back on your haunches, you bring yourself closer to the balcony ready to leap and flee from the horror that you committed. The window unlatches and you start to climb over the railing. But you make the mistake of looking back. The child opens its eyes and blinks at you, its eyes mirror your own. Cooing it reaches for you and the soldiers turn to look. You let out a low threatening growl, your claws out and gouging lines into the wood of the rail. Shouting ensues and you see them raise their weapons. You smile at the child on the floor and fall over the edge. But you did not count on the enemy being prepared. You land rocking forward into a roll and run. Nothing could prepare you for the fire and the pain that laced your entire being. A force stops you, suspending in the air the pain excruciating. Standing there a look of burning hate fixes on your face.

“You and your kind are an abomination,” she spits.

I tried to say something, but the pain made me snarl and writhe. She laughs.

“You are nothing compared to my power. I will kill you and eradicate your kind”

Your mind goes back to the child you left. Your heart cries in anguish. But you look her in the eye and snarl one more time. You know there was nothing you could do now. You tap into that kernel of power inside yourself and bring it to the surface. It encases you’re in flames and you smile knowingly at the evil standing in front of you. She doesn’t do anything at first, but then her eyes widen as she registers what’s happening. She screams, and you let yourself be taken away hoping you did the right thing.

Present Day; Kanna Empire

I breathe out. Shifting my foot, slightly bending my knees, my staff positioned in my hands. Eyes closed I listen for the sound of shifting soil underneath my opponent’s feet. My ears twitched trying to hear the telltale sound of a shifting stance. Sounds flooded my hearing. Birds chirping, the brush rustling, the regular hustle and bustle of people going about their daily lives. The air moved, and I reacted on instinct. My eyes snapped open and my staff shot up to block the oncoming blow. We made eye contact and that’s when the fun began. The continual blocking of blows, the whistle of the staffs rushing through the air. The jarring impact of wood against wood, the feeling of immense satisfaction and strength with each block and attack. My opponent swept for my legs and I jumped, my feet barely clearing the ground. I was fading fast. My muscles burned and my legs started to ache, sweat ran in rivulets down my body. My breath turned ragged each inhale burned on the way down. I saw the blow before it made contact, but I was to slow. I tensed waiting for impact. None came. I opened my eyes and stared at the tip of the staff an inch from my face. I cringed.

“Oops” I said, pushing the staff away from face with my and stepping to the side.

“Do you really think that a real enemy would stop when you freeze?” Aldrych asked, his face stony. I messed up… bad.

“I know that… I just got tired and I saw the blow coming I just wasn’t fast enough.” I scowled.

He acts like I’m a child. I stretched my arms and reached down to my toes. My back cracked and my calves screamed in protest. Groaning I straightened. Aldrych pulled the staff back, twirled it and set it down with a flourish. Leaning against it he continued staring at me, his face unmoving. Then he finally said something. One word.

“Again.”

I turned looking at him incredulously.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, let’s go again.”

“No, I’m tired and sweaty.”

“I don’t care, in a matter of life and death tired and sweaty won’t mean anything.”

I went to turn away. But I couldn’t move.

“You did not just use your telekinesis on me.” I fumed at him.

“Why, yes, yes I did. And I will use it until you listen to me and we go again.” His eyes narrowed.

I was angry. If I didn’t want to spar again, he couldn’t make me, and he said he’d never use his power on me again. He just broke that promise and so I can break mine. I looked him square in the eye, challenging. I looked inside myself and reached the kernel of power coiled inside me like a sleeping dragon. I reached and pulled, the ground started to move and the wind howled. My limbs started to burn, I smiled, finally the fun would begin. But then it just stopped. I cursed.

“Watch your language and do you honestly think that would have worked? Remember the reason I am training you is because I am the only one who can stop you” Aldrych said.

I growled “Well, it was worth a shot.”

He glared and his mental hold on me tightened. I breathed in quick. My eyes widened. It was like being stuffed inside that well again. My breath came in gasps and then I fell to the ground clutching my chest. My head spun, my vision flashing black and white. I faintly heard Aldrych cursing and running over to me. I felt his arm prop me up against his chest, his strength comforting.

I groaned and slowly opened my eyes. Aldrych was holding me stroking my hair, I snuggled closer.

“Ah, so you’re back.” Aldrych said, his voice completely and utterly blank.

I pushed away and punched him.

“You bastard!” I yelled at him, scrambling to my feet I stood staring my eyes prickled. I am not going to cry. He stayed where he was.

“You said you would never do that again!! You’re a damned idiot!” I fumed. My voice started to shake. Still he sat there saying nothing. I waited.

“Are you going to say anything?”

“No”

I threw my hands up and stormed off. Stupid, he’s stupid. I marched into the kitchen and made my way to the stairs.

“You aren’t looking too good there sweetie, what happened?” Cook grabbed my arm before I could open the door to the hall. She grabbed me by the shoulders and stared into my eyes.

“Ach, Aldrych is pushing you too hard,” She let go and bustled around the kitchen grabbing things here and there.

Pointing to a seat, she commanded, “Sit”

I sat, one does not cross Cook in her domain. Pouring some hot water in a cup she ground some herbs and let them steep.

“Now dear, tell me why you look so pale.”

“It’s nothing honestly, I just got a little lightheaded, I overexerted myself, that’s all.” I shrug

She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because I don’t think lightheaded causes you to fall unconscious.”

“I didn’t pass out!”

“Honey, your attire and your head say otherwise.” She pointed to my left temple and handed me a damp cloth.

I reached up and she smacked my hand before I could touch the wound.

“Your hands are filthy! Use the damn rag!”

I ducked my head sheepishly and dabbed at the scrape. I winced. How did I not realize that I had injured my head? Stupid fears.

Cook was milling about checking in on her assistants, making sure no one burnt anything and to make sure that the pots were clean. One poor soul accidentally dropped a fresh loaf of bread on the floor. The lad’s eyes widened in alarm when realized what he did. Cook was kind, but if you mess something up you are put on cleaning duty for a week or longer. I smiled slightly and shook my head. He’d be fine. A hand popped into my vision holding a cup. I set my hand down and looked up. A girl, maybe eight years old was standing her eyes at her feet the cup of tea outstretched in her small hands.

“Here you go M’lady.” Her voice squeaked at the end.

“Thank you,” I took the cup. “Can I see your face? Come on, I am not that scary am I?”

I coaxed her trying to get her to look up at me. She smiled a little but kept her head down.

“Hey,” I touched her shoulder, she flinched. “Are you okay, look at me.”

Slowly she brought her head up, I stared. Her eyes were the most peculiar beautiful things I had ever seen. They were pure gold with slight copper red rings around the iris’. She looked like was about to bolt.

I smiled. She ducked her head.

“Your eyes are beautiful.” I say

She dug her toe in the dirt, ducking down I could see she was blushing.

“Eliana! Please help Tom with this pie, he’s not doing it correctly.” Cooks voice brough the little girl, Eliana, scurrying over to her and the boy that had previously dropped the loaf of bread.

Cook ambled over to me, one hand on her soft belly. I nodded in the direction of the girl, “How long has she been here?”

“A couple of weeks, her uncle dropped her off. Apparently, she’s a troublemaker.”

This time I raised my eyebrows.

Cook chuckled, “I know, I don’t know what she did to make her family not want her, but she is definitely not a troublemaker. She’s a quick learner and a fair cook for her age. I’m thinking about taking her on as assistant cook.”

I stared at her, never once in the 17 years had I known her had Cook even thought about an assistant.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she swatted my arm. I grinned.

“I am getting older and Elaina is good. She also needs guidance; I don’t think she had any female influence when she was living with her uncle.” Cook made a disgusted face. I took it that the Uncle was not a nice man.

I stood and handed my empty cup to her, “Thank you for the tea and the rag. Also, I am happy that you finally are excepting help. It’s about time you chose an apprentice.”

That earned me another swat on the arm. I smiled and gave her a hug. I let go and walked up the stairs. Turning around I said, “Oh, I also forgot to tell you that your berry finger pies are delicious.”

She took a moment and then she glared at me. A couple hours ago Cook was in a mood because someone had taken most of her berry finger pies. That was me. She grabbed a towel and made to whip me with it, but I was out the door already.

Laughing I called back over my shoulder, “You know you love me!”

She reached the door and wagged her finger at me. She pretended to be angry, but I could see the small smile on her face.

I continued down the hall and slowed down. If any of the servants saw me rushing I’d be in trouble. It isn’t proper for a young lady to rush. I rolled my eyes and winced. That did not do well for the wound on my temple.

[catsafarithewriter]

You asked for prompts so - 1. “Is now a bad time to tell you that I’ve summoned a demon in the kitchen again or should I wait until after you’re done talking on the phone?” Muta to Baron in the bureau. And 2. "When you're here I don't feel so lost" Persephone to Louise. Do your thing :)

A/N: I’m probably gonna do both cause I have ideas for both, but for now let’s go down the “demon summoned in kitchen” one again, with wildly different vibes, and also because @tcrmommabear sent me this song (E.T - Katy Perry, slowed) to see what it would prompt, and the two are working together nicely. 

x

PROMPT: Is now a bad time to tell you that I’ve summoned a demon in the kitchen again, or should I wait until after you’re done talking on the phone?”

x

Baron lowered the phone. “Again?” he echoed. “When did you summon a demon the first time?”

“Uh, never?”

“It wasn’t a demon,” Haru piped up from the other end of the phone. “His name was Vincent and he didn’t appreciate you messing around with portals you don’t understand.”

“He had horns!” Muta hollered back.

“He was a goatman!”

Baron pinched the bridge of his nose. “Muta, why don’t you just show me this alleged demon you’ve brought into our kitchen?”

“Oh, I’ve gotta see this,” Haru said. “I’ll be there in five,” and she hung up. 

“How did you even summon a demon in the first place?” Baron asked. 

“Alright, so you remember when we went to the spirit festival last summer and there were these stalls selling apparently cursed chopping boards?”

“No.”

Muta paused. “Huh. I may not have told you about that.”

“You bought a cursed chopping board?!”

“I thought it was false advertising! Like zero-fat food or easy-to-assemble furniture! It’s not my fault they were telling the truth!”

“… Fine. And what makes you so sure it’s a demon… oh.” He halted at the doorway. 

Above the kitchen counter, a creature of nightmares and death clattered. 

It didn’t resemble a demon in any of the more western ideas of demons and the underworld, but there could be no doubt about it that this… creature had been dragged up from some hellish domain. 

It was built from bones and decay, multiple skulls swaying for dominance along what could possibly pass for shoulders on the beast, spheres of light glimmering inside the eye sockets. The rest of its body was an ever-shifting, ever-pulsing amalgamation of ribs and bones and limbs bound together in a weeping darkness. 

It only took up the extent of counter to ceiling, but that was enough. Too much. 

Heads turned to Baron as he approached. Jaws slackened in the likeness of smiles. “Well, well, well,” it wheezed, and its voice was the sound of twigs snapping, wind whistling through dead branches, a hundred voices screaming from afar. Its words echoed in upon itself. “What can I do for you, Baron?”

Baron inhaled sharply, the only outward sign of shock he allowed. “How do you know my name?”

“I know all about you. All of you.” The heads shuffled, another skull - one of a bear - rising to the front. “I can see into your very soul, your essence. Do you think such a paltry thing as a name would be hidden from me?”

“And what are you?”

“Does it really matter?” it hissed. 

Baron tilted his head. “I suppose not. Muta, did you receive any instructions on how to deal with your cursed chopping board when you bought it?”

“Don’t ya think I would have brought it up by now if I had?”

The creature laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “The contract you have me bound by demands I grant one wish. Do that, and I shall be gone.”

“Fine then. I wish-”

Baron motioned sharply before Muta could finish. “We don’t know what kind of forces we’re playing with here.” 

“Are you sure?” The creature shifted, its form angled towards Muta now. “I can grant you anything. Is there truly nothing you would ask for? Nothing in all the world that you would want back? Renaldo Moon, you lost so much that night, so much I could return to you.” 

Baron glanced to Muta. His friend’s old name sent alarm bells ringing through his mind. “Muta…”

“Hush, Creation,” the creature crooned. “Don’t speak of matters you know nothing about. Do you really think he would eat a lake full of fish on a whim? Do you think so lowly of your friend that you never thought to ask what really happened that night?” 

“Shut up.”

The creature’s many heads swivelled back to Muta. “What did you say?”

“I said shut up. Butt out. Yer think I’m stupid? Yer think I’m really gonna wish upon some bone freak? Yer really do have nothing but air in those skulls, do ya?”

The bear jaw snapped shut. The heads shuffled again, this time an owl skull taking precedence. Huge eye sockets, over half the size of the skull, focused on something behind them. “Then the crow Creation. Surely you have something you want?”

Baron and Muta looked back to see Toto arrive, dipping his head through the doorway. For a long moment, Toto didn’t say anything. Then, “The cursed chopping board? Really? I told you it was a bad idea, puddingbrains.”

“Yeah, yeah, just think of a way to get rid of it, beaky.”

The bony beak of the creature curved upwards, an impossible smile along its face. “Toto,” it whistled, its voice a slightly different tenor, but still like nails on a chalkboard. “There are things you want. I know there are things you want. Wish, and it shall be granted.”

Toto tilted his head to the other two Bureau members. “Has it already tried this with you two?”

“Jus’ me so far.”

“Did it do as badly as this?”

“You laugh and you joke and you throw yourself into the Bureau, never stopping long enough to think back to the past,” the creature continued, undaunted by Toto’s indifference. “But the past is always there, always haunting you, always one step behind you. You think I can’t see that? One wish, and I can give it all back to you. I can return the lives that you were unable to protect. I can give you back your home.”

Toto was silent for a long moment. 

“My home is here now,” he said eventually. Quietly. “These are the people I protect.” 

The creature observed him, only the clattering of its bones supplying sound. The light within its eye sockets dimmed and the owl skull sunk down. A feline skull took its place… or almost feline, anyway. The proportions didn’t quite rest properly in its form, its outline shifting between feline and… something else. Those empty eyes turned to Baron, changing focus as easy as breathing. “Your companions look to the past, whereas you, Baron, you… are all about the future. I can respect that. No looking back for you.” 

“I have watched you try your tricks twice before. You have nothing left to surprise me with.”

The skull shifted into a smile, shimmering between forms. For a moment, it looked nearly human, and then it was back to feline and Baron could have believed he missaw. 

“Such bold words for one who buries his desires so deep,” it purred. It lowered its head and Baron saw the light within its eye sockets was golden. “Your companions may yearn for a missing piece of their past, but you yearn for something you haven’t even lost yet. Tell me, Creation, how is the human? Are you still torturing her by pretending not to notice how she feels?”

Baron took a step back. “I don’t know what-”

“Don’t you? That’s funny; your companions do.” Multiple heads flickered towards Muta and Toto. “Don’t you?”

Both looked away. 

“Tell me, Baron,” the feline head continued, “what do you think is keeping you at bay? Is it her mortality? Yours? Tell me why you lie to her, to yourself, again and again. How long will this merry little dance go on for? A month? A year? A lifetime? You may have all the time in the world, but it is ticking on for her. Tell me, Baron, and I can wish it all away.”

“You talk too much,” Baron growled. 

“And you talk too little.”

The seconds passed, and even the clattering of the bones were silent. 

“She has a life,” Baron said softly, “and it is not my place to intrude.”

“A human life,” the creature translated.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Baron turned on the creature. “That is not my decision to make.”

“No,” it said, unaffected. “It’s hers.” And it nodded to the frozen form at the door. 

“Haru-” Baron breathed. 

“Is it true?” she interrupted. “Is that why you’ve kept quiet all this time?”

“Why don’t you wish and find out?” the creature crooned. 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Haru snapped. Her gaze shot back to Baron. “Is it true? Baron.”

He was still, so terribly still. “Haru-”

“Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He slowly met her eyes. “Because you are mortal. You deserve the chance for a mortal life.”

She strode to him, closing the space between them in three quick sharp steps. “Don’t think I should be the one who gets to decide that?” she asked. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”

“You may come to regret your decision.”

“You mean regret you.”

“Regret letting your mortal life pass you by. I am eternally aware you are a guest in our world; it would be presumptuous to think we do anything but borrow you.”

Haru stepped away as if stung. “Is that what you think of me? A guest?”

“Eventually, you will have to return to your human life.”

“But if that were not the case?”

The creature clattered, its form shifting with the unspoken potential. Baron glanced to it out of the corner of his eye. “Do not wish anything you’ll come to regret,” he said. 

“I’m not talking about wishes,” Haru retorted. “I’m talking about us. If my mortal life was not something you had to worry about, if I were like... like you, would things be different between us?”

“Yes.”

Haru’s eyes narrowed, but whatever she had to say was swallowed by the unearthly laughter of the creature. “There you have it,” it purred, its voice reverberating in on itself. “He admits it. But you - we - can change that. All it takes is just one little wish-”

Haru snarled and rounded on the creature. “I wish you’d crawl back into whatever gutter came from!” she snapped and turned back to Baron even as the creature hissed and curled in upon itself. “How can someone so smart be so stupid?”

The rest of the Bureau uneasily eyed the space where the creature had occupied. Faint smoke curdled from the chopping board but, other than that, there was no sign it had ever existed. 

“Baron!”

He glanced to the chopping board and then back to Haru. “I thought-”

“What? Did you really think I was going to listen to anything that home-bought demon had to offer? I’m angry, not dumb. But you... I cannot believe how much time we have wasted because some idiotic notion of what a mortal life should be has numbed you into a state of emotional constipation!”

“What?”

She huffed and stepped back up to him. “I choose you. I chose you a long time ago, and I will always choose you. I guess the only question left is if you choose me too?”

Baron didn’t - couldn’t - answer immediately. “Yes,” he whispered. “Always.”

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Dulce Et Decorum Est - Chapter 2

It’s finally here! This chapter has been written (as will be this whole story) in cooperation with @lightsaberwieldingdalek. Here’s the Link to AO3.

Summary: A beloved Queen's funeral and an unwilling coronation.

Quick note: Both Niflheim and Tenebrae have their own language. In this 'verse Lucian is the lingua franca, so the few foreign terms used will be shown at the beginning of each chapter.

Tenebrani (language of Tenebrae): élèvet = form of address for a viceroy

Nifasi (language of Niflheim): fanis = set phrase marking the end of an official (in the past mostly religious) speech sitrapp = viceroy

Lunafreya tried to steady her shaking hands, to keep her breath even and only concentrate upon the task in front of her. She could not fail at this. If she did the consequences may be disastrous.

Ravus should be here to do this, not me. I should be the one helping him. He has such steady hands.  

Her breath hitched and she desperately tried to keep it in, to cease breathing altogether, but her traitorous body made her release it in a heaving sob when her sight started to blur from lack of oxygen. Oxygen. A word her mother had taught her mere weeks before.

Another sobbing breath.

She could cry if she wanted to. No one was there to see, as she was alone in her mother’s study. Resolutely she scrubbed the growing tears from her eyes. After she had done this, she could cry all she wanted but now there was no time for it. Not when she had to do the tasks Ravus should have done were he here. 

On the desk in front of her laid a heavy, open book. Her mother’s flower lexicon. Her own flower lexicon now, she supposed. If Niflheim deigned to let her keep it, that was. 

Its paper was thick and cream with the pictures of the flowers and various plants related to Tenebrani flower language, shown in detailed hand drawings. The pages were currently practically buried under papers full of practice drawings, pencils and unused paint brushes.

Despite her young age, Lunafreya knew that the situation she now was in would not be easy for both her or her brother - wherever he had managed to hide - and not only because she had witnessed her mother’s death. The last thing she had seen of her brother was him kneeling by their mother’s side begging King Regis for help. Lunafreya had seen the pure desperation in Ravus’ eyes and hadn’t been able to run anymore, her strength leaving her, and so she had stayed. A small part of her whispered that that had been a truly bad idea.

Hopefully Ravus would stay hidden, even if she desperately wanted him to be here with her to make their mother’s burial mask.

If he was still alive, a traitorous voice whispered in her mind. But he had to be. He just had to.

Her fingers skimmed the slightly uneven surface of the mask in her lap. The features didn’t resemble her mother, not truly. Her captors had forbidden her from commissioning one of the specialized artisans to craft it. Traditionally, a royal burial mask was crafted from fine ceramic edged in silver. This one, however, was made from clay, formed by the inexperienced hands of a child helped by one of the maids who had taken pity on her.

What silver leaf Lunafreya had been able to scrounge together, she had used to line the eyes and lips, the edges slightly uneven. Now she sat there, forcing her hands to stay steady as she proceeded to carefully paint flowers upon its surface. They formed a band from the lower left to the upper right. Lunafreya knew the barest minimum about actually arranging the flowers, so she grouped them together the way she liked them, and hoped it would be enough for her mother’s soul to remember herself.

She started with the sage, as that had been what her mother was with her deepest devotion. A healer.

The sun set and Lunafreya continued to struggle, her small hands smudged with paint and formal dress stained and crumpled. She had been here all day, hidden in her mother’s study, to pick out the flowers and painstakingly paint them with unpracticed hands upon the mask.

Even as the light faded, she squinted by the large, ornate window, before harsh electric light sparked in sudden brightness. Lunafreya flinched back from where her nose was nearly touching the drying paint. Luckily the paintbrush hadn’t been touching the clay surface, otherwise there would now be an ugly purple stain on its cheek.

The harsh sound of metal boots on marble grated against her ears. Not a second later the door was thrown open violently enough that it crashed against the wall, and a struggling old man was pulled into the room, dressed only in night clothes. A rifle was pointed at him as he puffed and panted, clearly not having been able to keep up with these soldiers.

His wizened face was streaked by teartracks, and a large black eye was forming over a bruise the shape of a rifle’s butt. Stammering, he turned to the soldiers who dragged him in: “I-I-I can’t do this here, there are ceremonies! Please, General Glauca has to know- The crown, the sceptre, everything! We’re not even at the Oracle’s temple!”

His voice was high pitched and loud in his panic.

She knew who this poor old man was without having to look. He was the High Priest of Shiva. If the Oracle was unable to preside over a holy ceremony, it was him who did it. Last year he had spoken the grace of the new year because her mother had been away to help the rising number of scourge-sick.

Lunafreya curled into a ball, tears dripping silently down her face, as a second bruise was added to match the first, the old man crumpling to the floor. She ducked her head as a steel toed boot thudded into his gut, and a scream echoed through the high-ceilinged room. 

Eventually, a shaking hand touched Lunafreya’s shoulder. Much quieter than before, his voice rough from screaming the old man asked: “Do you-” a harsh cough splattered fine droplets of blood onto her dress “h-h-have a crown?”

Not able to bring herself to speak, Lunafreya reached for her mother’s desk and opened the topmost drawer, revealing the circlet sitting there, the one her mother likes - liked, she reminded herself, a tear dripping from her nose - to wear for informal photos.

The dripping of blood on marble sounded like a drumbeat in the silent room. Luna shivered as the empty eyes of the magitek soldiers drilled into her through opaque masks, a twisted parody of the mask sitting forgotten in her lap.

A quavering voice filled her ears, circlet held high above her head with trembling hands. 

“I speak in the name of Shiva, the Glacian, the final kiss of winter, the last breath. I hold up to the Gods this wo- girl”, he quickly corrected, but even that small stumble had an ominous click coming from the nearest gun as it was pointed at the High Priest’s back.

Blood splattered the priests fist as he coughed again. “This girl, blood of the Oracles, first born daughter of the Oracle Sylva Via Fleuret, whom now walks in Ramuh’s Domain. “

No she doesn’t, whispered that voice in Luna’s mind once more, as she stares transfixed in horror at the old man. Mother has to drown first.

The words continued, but Lunafreya they sounded as if spoken underwater. Only now did she realize this is was a coronation. Her initiation as an Oracle. The only reason she would be crowned was if- she couldn’t even think of it.

The plain silver circlet was lowered onto her head, stained with fresh blood, and tilting awkwardly down one side.  

In the reflection of the dark window, Lunafreya saw a slight young girl, eyes wide and tearful and blonde hair touched with red at the temples. The too large circlet only emphasising her age. Or rather her lack thereof. 

For the first time since her mother burned, Lunafreya seemed to wake from her shock, looking out at the city. Its lights twinkled in the growing darkness as if nothing had happened a mere two days ago.

The High Priest bowed as low as he was able, nightclothes stained a deep red. 

“My Lady,” he rasped. But not queen.

The 114th Oracle of Tenebrae, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, burst into tears.

The first silvery grey bands of the morning lightened the horizon over the still waters of Queensgrave Bay, its waters a deep black full of nightly shadows that clung to the arriving day. A single long rowing boat rocked gently by the shore, its oars neatly tucked in and new midnight blue paint barely dry enough for it not to dissipate into the water. The sheer cloth, light as a breeze, that should cover the precious cargo it carried, was instead a solid, heavy fabric that reminded Lunafreya of a bed sheet. 

The young princess stood in front of the gathered crowd, dressed in a heavy gown of midnight blue, her royal mourning mask covering the right half of her face. After making her mother’s burial mask and organizing a funeral boat with the help of a few servants she hadn’t had the time to make a personalized one. 

Next to her stood the man who would rule Tenebrae from now on as a protectorate of Niflheim. His name was Forsett Dunridge and Lunafreya could practically feel the oily and greedy aura the man gave off. He wore a mourning mask that covered the right half of his face, which was coloured a solid blue and had no adornments. Lunafreya wanted to tear it off his face and claw the man’s eyes out while she was at it.

But she couldn’t.

Instead she refused to look at him as he gave his speech. There wasn’t supposed to be a speech. Or any talking at all. Burials, especially royal ones, were to be attended in silence. 

Everything about this Élèvet Dunridge was aggravating, but right now it was especially his voice. It was a nasally thing, strangely high pitched and the man made what he probably thought was a dramatic pause, every three words. Lunafreya concentrated on the crowd in front of her, on the blank stares and barely veiled fury paired with resignation she found there, and forced herself to listen. If she wanted to survive, to fulfill her calling, she needed to know this man as best as she could.

“... is our solemn duty to now bid farewell to one of Eos’ greatest women. Her grace and beauty will be missed by all. May the Astrals watch over her passing and guide her into the Beyond. Fanis.”

Finally, there was silence. Only now that he stopped speaking did Élèvet Dunridge seem to realize that something was not quite right. Viciously, Lunafreya wondered if it was the lack of applause that tipped him off. The new viceroy stood there, in his garish black and red military style robes that were supplemented by pieces of decorative armour in the newest Niflheimr fashion, clearly waiting for something to happen.

Lunafreya could practically feel the man vibrate in impacience, before he gave a quiet huff and waved to a group of soldiers standing at the edge of the crowd near her mother’s funeral boat. They weren’t those new magitek soldiers but actual Niflheimr people in flesh and blood. The young princess counted seven of them, one of them clearly of a higher rank. They all wore helmets that reminded her of buckets with bars through which she could see their faces.

The crowd grew visibly nervous as they started to move and arranged themselves at the shore, near the water’s edge, close to the boat in which her mother lay dead. Three on one side, three on the other and their leader in front of them. All but him carried elaborate rifles at their sides.

He gave an order. Lunafreya couldn’t understand it over the sound of the wind dancing over the glittering waves. In a few precise movements the other six held the rifles out in front of them, as the sun rose over the horizon another order came to which they aimed their guns into the air and fired.

Lunafreya jerked in surprise and she could feel her stomach drop in dread. Her brother’s face as the shot clipped his arm flashed through her mind and all she could do was to suppress the urge to scream, tugging it tightly behind her clenched teeth. Other people in the crowd broke their solemn silence in their fear, as they screamed and ducked for cover. 

Again, the six soldiers fired, the sound of the shots echoing over the still waters and the wide plaza of Queensgrave Bay. It was near deafening. But through all that noise, the gunshots and the people screaming below them, she could still hear what Dunridge said: “And these are the people I’m supposed to rule? Pathetic.”

Silence gradually descended upon the beach again when it became clear that no more shots would be fired. Lunafreya stood there, next to this vile man, and had no idea what to do. Sweat made the palm of her hands slick and dripped down her neck. Her skin prickled uncomfortably as she slowly and carefully turned towards Dunridge. 

“May I ask what this was about, Élèvet Dunridge?” she asked, her voice carefully soft and her hands clasped in front of her.

The man stared at her, disdain clear in his watery eyes. “Sitrapp, if you please, or Viceroy, if you must. It is customary to salute a deceased leader in this way.” He hesitated for barely a moment before adding, as if it was an afterthought: “Is this not done here?”

Lunafreya swallowed dryly around her nervousness and scrambled for a fitting answer. Dunridge however, had already turned away from her to watch the following proceedings. 

He does not care.

The realization hit her like one of Ramuh’s devine lightning bolts. She didn’t know why deep down she had clung to the faintest hope that this man might respect Tenebrae. It had been stupid. So utterly stupid. The foolish hope of a foolish little girl. It nearly made her break down again right then and there. 

The only thing keeping her upright and her tears at bay as the soldiers returned to their original spot with brisk steps and four servants dressed in midnight blue and dark silver robes started to push her mother’s funeral boat into the still ocean, was her will to not prove this man next to her right. 

She knew he thought her to be a weak willed little child he had to put up with because she was the next Oracle - no, she was the Oracle now and that thought burned like acid in her mind. She knew he thought of the Tenebrani as wimpy weaklings who should not have the international influence and power they had. And now he was saddled with them. 

The solid blue cloth covering her mother fluttered in the wind as the boat slowly drifted out into the bay as if to remind her why she stood there, on the bay, in the first place. A breeze tugged gently at a strand of her blonde hair, like her mother had often done when reprimanding her for not paying attention. 

Her mother was right: she could think about such things later. Now she needed to fokus. 

She needed to be ready to sing the traditional tunes the moment the boat started to sink. It wasn’t a song sung in words, but a series of notes, rising and falling, made to imitate the tides in respect to Leviathan. 

Behind her, the crowd joined her, voices lifting in the wind, the tones a plea for the Hydraean to guide the dead Queen through her depths. And Lunafreya watched as her mother drowned.

She could still see the sinking ship in her mind like a recording, playing again and again and again, as she was pushed towards an armoured car, waiting just at the end of the plaza. Dunridge had clamped a meaty hand on her shoulder the moment she had started to sing in a subtle attempt to guide her off the platform. But she had refused to budge. This was a duty she refused to abandon with every ounce of strength left within her. 

The sinking boat was still visible as a black shadow under the water, as mutterings rose within the crowd she was being pushed through. Magitek soldiers in front of her pushed the spectators aside mercilessly to free the way.

They hadn’t made it past the halfway point when the mutterings turned into loud and angry voices. And when she tore her eyes from where she knew the glittering ocean to be, as rocks began to hail down around them, and the man behind her ordered “Warning shots”, the young Oracle’s eyes met another’s, eyes as cold as ice.

Shiva, the Glacian, the Gentle, the Beauty of the first Snow, carefully suppressed the urge of her host-body to huff in annoyance. She would not lower herself to that mortal reaction. She couldn’t, however, contain her ire enough to not freeze a train conveniently coming up near her corpse-body. 

Everything had gone wrong. So horribly wrong. 

The sacrifice-child was far too caught in her own head, drowning in grief and self-pity, to be of any use for now. Her brother had disappeared. Somehow he was hiding from her divine gaze. It made her feel… disconcerted. 

She needed to find him again. And fast. That boy may just be a backup, but power still slept within his blood. Power, that should not go unsupervised and unguided by the right hands. But that would have to come later. For now she needed to be the one to lend the sacrifice-child a sympathetic ear.

She kept watching until the car started to drive away from the angry mob, and the blighted puppet soldiers retaliated in kind to their growing unrest. Then she vanished, unnoticed, in a gust of icy cold wind to await her charge within her chambers.

[eldridgecandell]

The Shadowed Burrow

(An ask prompt that went off the rails)

“Emma look out!”  Eld cried out as he grabbed the inventor and quickly pulled her away from the stone wall, a large wicker hand bursting forth from the ruins to grasp fruitlessly in the damp air.  The rotten digits poked and scraped at the pack soil and debris as they tried to find the warm soft flesh of the living.  It made no sound in other than it’s appendages, the deadly silence of the golem as terrifying as the unnaturally stitched and scraped monster it was.  The pungent sweet scent of rot and earth mixed with whatever bloody sinew had been used to tie it all together.  

They had said the Heartsbane were broken and gone due to their defeat in the taking of Waycrest Manor thanks to the Six and the Lady Waycrest herself.  Only a few stragglers and hanger-ons remained to work horror and havoc, destined to be a thorn in the side of the Kul Tirans as long as they could.  The Order had grown and begun to root out the evil they had unleashed, small still but able to fight back and do their best to protect the small folk.  The days of the witches reign were at an end before they had had a chance to really begin.  This trip into the Crimson had proved they were wrong.  The way was open and there was no way to shut it.

Eldridge held Emma close to him as the wicker beast tried to feel them out, the witch hunter’s breath ragged and painful against her shaking form.  Emma shook as he nails dug into the old leather gear of the hunter as she prayed to the Tides or Light or Fel or whoever to please get out of here.  Why had she insisted on checking down here?  Was the Azerite worth her life?  She wanted to do the right thing and help the people of the world, but she was no hero.  She was a scientist, an inventor, a woman who belonged in the workshops and libraries wishing warriors good luck and hoping for safe returns.

Now she was here in the bowels of some horrible cobbled tunnel in the Crimson wood surrounded by the abominations, Drust, and witchcraft.  She just wanted to be a footnote in the story, not in the thick of it.  

Eld watched as the hand slowly leaned back in the opening it had made in the tunnel, still trying to slow his breathing as he gently patted her, whispering softly.  “We have to move.”

The woman did nothing but cling to him still, the witch hunter thankful for his leather as he heard the creak of her nails digging into his back as she held tight.  Letting out a soft sigh he’d slowly reach over and begin to pry her loose of him, his hands being as gentle but forceful as he whispered again.  “Emma you have to calm down.  You have to calm down.  We’re going to get out of here.”

“I don’t want to die.”

The words were sobering and terrifying as she spoke them, letting the five little words echo in the dark around them as they stood there.  Gulping and freeing himself of the inventor, Eld would whisper again to her.  “We’re not going to die, Emma.  We’re going to get out of here.  We’re going to get out and get out of the woods.”

She was shaking hard in his hands as he gripped her arms, her eyes as wide as the spectacles on her face as she looked up into his dirty face.  Lines of tears clear upon Emma’s pale cheeks as they dug through the red soil that matched their current world.  The inquisitor hoped his face was braver than his heart felt as he used a thumb to smear the tears away into mud on her face.  “We’re not going to die.”

“You promise?”  Emma asked quickly as she continued to shake.

Gritting his teeth a moment, he braced himself for the ultimate lie.  “I promise.”

Emma nodded softly in the dark feeling the older man’s hand grasp hers and squeeze softly before leading her toward the new makeshift portal back into the maze of tunnels.  Their steps slow and light as they edged near to the shambled mud wall and peered out into the witch lite hive of the Coven.  

It was empty and it was quiet, the wicker man seeming to have left to find other quarry or maybe drawn off somewhere else.  A pang of new worry struck Emma as she thought of the poor soul it probably pursued finding Bandit missing.  The inventor bit her lip as she wanted to ask the dog’s master but sound was their enemy and stealth was all they had this point.  A hard squeeze from the older man brought her back to the present situation, his eyes locking to hers as he motioned to his hand and mouthed the word focus.  Lifting his fingers to his eyes, Eld would shake his head and point to his hand with a nod again.  Don’t look.  The inventor obliged.

Their steps were slow and careful as Eld guided the young woman.  His eyes scanning the underground cavern for signs of movement or detection letting Emma worry about being quiet than the horrors around them.  A pang of thankfulness wretched at his heart for all the years he had had to deal with this sort of thing.  From when he fought orcs, to the Scourge, to the Forsaken, and now with the witches here only added more fuel to the nightmare that life never gave quarter too..  Seeing what these creatures were doing within these macabre burrows made him glad that he’d lost faith.  What kind of holy virtue would let this endure?

Forcing himself to look away from the workshop of the Coven, the hunter would continue to inch his way along toward one of the tunnels he noted had a slight up turn of the floor.  The way out.  Or so he hoped.  No matter where it lead though it had to be away from this place and somewhere that didn’t stick of more than rott and wood.  The sounds of boiling vats seemed to chorus in their wake as they reached the tunnel mouth and slipped up a few steps into the shadowed witch light again.

A shaky breath expelled before Eld tapped the young woman on the shoulder and saw her look up to him again.  Droplets of blood dribbled down her chin from how hard she had bit it, eyes still wide with fright.  Please tell me she didn’t see, he thought as he felt a pang of sorrow strike his heart.  To have seen become of those poor people who haunt him like so many other ghosts, Emma didn’t need that.  Gulping hard, he would lean in close to her ear.  

“You have to run.”

Emma’s head jerked up as she looked up to his face as the terror began to eat at her again, it reflected in his eyes that looked beyond her and behind.  Eld licked his bottom lip as he tensed before her and lead her around behind him to put himself between her and the wicker man again.  She didn’t want to look.  She knew she shouldn't.  Her eyes looked over the shoulder of her friend back into the mouth of this mad hell.

The wicker man filled the mouth of the tunnel.  It’s body huge bent over to lean on one of it’s large carved wicker hands, the rotten and splintered claws digging into the dirt as it poised in position.  Warped and tied together by strands of meaty sinew and hair turned like living tissue to adjust it’s stance in watching them.  Or what they thought was watching.  Two blank holes of an elk’s skull watched them, black as the shadows that crawled away from the blue lite torches stared ahead.  It’s yellowed skull head was littered with other bones thanks to a variety of donors.  Wolf, ox, elk, and man.

It’s wooden fingers pulled it forward slowly like a hunter cornering it’s prey, the head tilting otherworldly like an owl as it regarded them.  Long horns that protruded from it’s head dug through the dirt floor and walls as it forced it’s large body deeper into the tunnel.  Since first meeting the monster it finally made some sort of sound.  No words, no growls, no breath.  It clicked.  Clicked and clicked like clacking teeth as it tilted its head one way and then another summing the pair of living in it’s master’s domain.  They were guests.  They were trespassers.  They were supplies.  

Eld used himself fully as a shield to the inventor as he could hear her breath coming in quick terrified gasps as the wicker man slowly edged after them again.  His own heart pounding faster by the second as he tried to think of a plan.  He was out of bolts, not that they had done any good before.  He had two of his iron knives still on him, but he couldn’t imagine getting close.  His sword had bounced off the wooden body of the creature before being lost to the depths.  There seemed to be the only one way.

“I don’t want to die.  I don’t want to die.  I don’t want to die.”  Emma’s hyperventilating was growing out of control as she began to freeze behind him.

“Emma you have to run.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Emma you have to run!”  Eld’s voice rising as he looked over his shoulder briefly and then back to the stalking monster.

“I don’t wa-”

“Run!”  Eld yelled as he turned and shoved her away to send the flight into the young woman before she let out a terrified wail and began to run up the shaft.  The hunter was chasing after her just the same as they pounded the dirt and ran upwards into the ascending dark.  The wicker man took after them as well, still clicking it’s bone words and forcing its way in pursuit.

The witch hunter was near a full head taller than the inventor as they ran and it showed in his longer stride as he near passed her only to shove her and egg her on.  “Run Emma, don’t look back!  Faster!”

A wail was all she could manage as she clawed and forced her legs on her heart near bursting with her lungs as they fled from the darkness that never tired.  Emma bounced from one wall and felt the witch hunter at her back shove her forward with another yell, not even managing words now as they tried to escape.  Have to keep going.  Keep running.  Don’t look back.  Watch your step.  The last thought was forgotten as a low root seemed to reach out and snag her booted foot sending the young woman forward to slide on her hands and knees.  The dirt felt warm under her skin, warm and wet.  And red.  Why is the dirt red?

Strong hands would grasp her about the waist and lift her up with a roar of strain before she was flung forward with a scream.  Her scream was soon joined by a cry of pain and heavy thump as Eld flew over her and slammed into one of the mud walls and slid weakly to his feet.  Punch drunk and wounded the man tried to get his footing as he looked back to her and started to yell before something leapt over to land between them.  Soil and rock fell on top of Emma, as she lifted her hands to her head and curled into a ball to protect herself.  The smattering of debris clearing her vision before she looked up to see the back of the horror and Eld pinned against the wall by one of it’s huge hands.

The witch hunter had only a few seconds to react as the wicker man knew who the threat could very well be, hunters knew the scent of fear and Emma was doused in it.  Eld’s eyes widened as the clawed hand flew forward to grasp him, his own arms coming reflexively around his chest and guard his ducked head.  The wind was knocked out of him as he felt the mud wall catch him and the wicker hand squeeze about his battered weary body.  He was caught.

The wooden fingers dug into the dirt wall to close the space quickly about Eld and the rest of the golem began to press it’s mass behind the grip to begin crushing the fragile flesh.  Eld was glad he had his arms up in the defensive gesture as he strained against the abominations murderous intention.  It would pop him like a tomato at this rate.  Growling and straining he would try to push his arms back against the strength of the wickerman, the blank empty eyes sockets staring at him as he struggled.  Eld’s struggles continued as his growling turned into cries of anger and pain.  He was going to die.  He was going to die in some Coven workshop of terror and no one would probably ever know.  Eld began to struggle for breath as he looked out beyond the monster’s face and saw Emma staring horrified at the death of her friend.  The hunter stared back as he knew he was going to break his promise already.

Emma didn’t know what to do as she watched the golem crush her friend in the palm of it’s clawed hand.  Her glasses were cracked as the world came in a fractured vision of the demise of Eldridge.  Her breath in gasps as she froze and began to feel her mind begin to shut down and search out a safe place.  Knees slowly drawn up to her chest as she felt herself exit her body and regard her terrified self in the dark of the red tunnel.  Her voice soft against the painful cries of the older man.

“I don’t want die.”

You don’t have too, spoke a voice.  It’s words dripped with clarity and calm like the voice of a patient parent or mentor.  A gentle stroke to her mind as it had spoken so clearly to her.

“I don’t want to die.”  She mumbled again as she rocked.  Eld let out another scream of pain as the clicking wicker man seemed to find a sadistic joy in killing the man.

You don’t have to my sweet girl, the voice spoke again that gentle stroke to her mind much like her mother’s once was to her blond hair during a storm.  You don’t have to my sweet girl.  We can help you.

“I don’t want to die.”  Emma buried her face in her knees again as she closed her eyes, hoping not seeing the slow murder who erase it.  The wild scream said otherwise.

Say the word my dear Tidesinger, say the word and we will save you.  The gentle touch was intoxicating in it’s warmth and reassurance.  The could save her.  She could get away.  They would save her.  She just had to say yes.

Emma couldn’t manage the words any more as she rocked bakc and forth, the soft touch of the voice’s promise filling her and starting to send her into a dreadful calm.  The Fel could save her.  They could get her away.  She didn’t have to die.

“I don’t have to die.”

You don’t have to die.

Her mouth grew dry as she felt the warmth again, but this time it wasn’t as soft and gentle.  It felt hotter.  Stronger.  It felt good.  She didn’t have to die.

Say the word, Tidesinger.

Her lips began to move as she found herself tempted, blocking out the horrible scream of the man who had brought her down here.  She could get away. She didn’t have to die down here.  She could live.

A lone howl echoed from the dark.

Emma’s lips stopped moving as she heard that howl, her head shooting up to see the slumped over form of the witch hunter in the grip of the monster.  Eld was not moving.  The thing’s head lifted as it peered up the way they had been running, following the fractured gaze of the inventor’s.

The shadows would part for a dark haired figure flying toward the creature, a warcry bouncing off the mud walls as he flew through the air.  The witch lite bouncing off a strange orange metal in the figure’s hands as it revealed to be a wide blade down at the golem’s wrist that pinned the witch hunter.  The sword passed through the wicker like butter as the figure used his momentum to roll through the dirt and bounce back up regain his footing.  The enraged face of Renwyk Darrow was instantly recognizable as the watcher adjusted his stance for another slash of the copper blade.

Emma stared in shock at the man, her mouth agape as his blade bit another deep bite into the clicking golem.  She never even noticed the second blur of shadow fly forward with a roar to bite down on one of the antlers of the golem and drag it back exposing it’s chest, Bandit looking far to small to have such strength.  Emma wanted to say something but a new sound caused the world to explode in pain from the loud blast of gun fire thundered through the enclosed hall.  The shot ripped deep into the chest of the  golem as chunks of wood and bone flew through the air, that same witch lite as before shining out from the wound.

“Mr Darrow!  Now!”  Another man’s voice called out as a glint of orange metal again spun through the air, Renwyk slammed the sword deep into what was the shoulder of the beast before leaping up again with an outstretched hand.  The orange disappeared in an easy catch before the soldier fell back upon the creature again.  Blue light flared once before being snuffed out to the low light of the torches and a slow steam rising about the warrior’s frame.

Hands grabbed and shook Emma as she blinked back into reality her wide eyes slowly coming into focus as she looked about the tunnel at the sudden rescue.  Following those hands about her shoulders she would soon be staring into the disheveled and worried face of her friend Priscilla.

“Emma, oh Light Emma, what the hell happened?  Emma,” the dark haired woman was shaking as her face was slowly growing wetter by the second as she swept her friend into her arms now and held her.  Emma smelled gunpowder, sulfur, and a dash of old perfume, the same that she knew Pris always wore when she went out to visit a certain gentleman.  Sobs erupted from the inventor as she held tight to her friend and wept into her shirt, the soft cooing of Priscilla Adams rising as she tried to calm her down.

“Tides and Fel, this is incredible,” came the cautious voice of Gideon Beresford, the large coach gun held loosely in his hands as he walked around the ruined corpse.  He too was dressed much like Priscilla, indeed they seemed to have the same shirt as he walked around and toward where Pris sat with Emma.  

“I think we need to concern ourselves more with the wounded, sir,” Renwyk added grimly as he hopped down from the golem’s chest and hurried made his way to Eld.  As he approached he would find the black dog, sitting in front of the slumped over man.  Back straight, ears up the large head would slowly turn toward the approaching watcher and cause the man to stop in his tracks.

Black eyes shown in the low light, staring without end from a vast void of emptiness that made folk look away and decide what they saw was a trick of the light.  Eyes that shouldn’t belong to the living.  The dog continued to stare down the human with that hollow gaze before Ren slowly backed away from the scene.  Out of the anima’s line of sight the former watcher would find his hand gripping the hilt of the copper blade he’d left in the wicker man.

“Good boy, just need,” Eld groaned out weakly, a hand reaching for the dog.  “Just need to catch my breath.  Good boy.”

Darrow grimaced as he tugged at the blade and found it falling out of the creature easily, a plume of grey and black ash falling away from the wound.  Surprise lighting his eyes he’d watch as the grey had begun to spread over the wicker man, the wood petrifying as the dark magic broke down.

“Light,” murmured the younger man as he looked at the brightly shining copper sword.  “Sir, what manner of sword is this?”

Gideon turned to Renwyk with a grim smile on his face, a hand running over Pris’s hair in comfort as the woman continued to comfort her friend.  “There's a myth about how you can kill a tree with a copper coin.  Dig it in deep, leave it, and the tree will die around it.  Old wives tale to be sure.”

The professor cautiously moved over to the pile of ash and began to move it about with his boot before crouching down with a gallows laugh.  “I’m fascinated with myth and legends, old wives tales and I always had a soft spot for this country.  So when Pris grabbed me and said we were coming to the Crimson, something grabbed me about that old tales.  Call it luck or fate or whatever, it doesn’t really matter.”

Gideon stood back up and held up the large copper nail that Renwyk had caught.  “Fight tales with tales.”

The watcher shook his head in disbelief.  “This is crazy.”

“It’s very crazy.  I’m guessing you came by the same means as us,” Gideon continued as he slipped the nail back in a pocket.

The watcher’s eyes moved back to where the dog sat across from his master, his hand instinctively tightening about the hilt of the sword again.  Something was very familiar about the pair.  “You’d be right.  The dog right?”

“Indeed,” the professor followed the gaze of his cohort, a more curious look to his face than cautious before shaking his head and moving back to the women.  “There’ll be time for questions later.  We should be going.”

“Right.”  The watcher keeping one last glance at the ranger and his pet before turning to help them.

Gideon crouched down again and touched Pris gently on the shoulder, as he smiled sadly to her.  “We need to go. I’m not sure how far down we are, but we can’t stay in here.”

Pris nodded softly before speaking again as she looked into the dirty blonde hair of Emma.  “Candell?”

A reluctant sigh fell from the professor’s mouth as he looked at the ground.  “Pris I’m so-”

“Sorry we went in without you,” came a weak voice from behind them.  The witch hunter leaned on a hand on the dog’s head to steady himself, his face pale and drawn with caked soil and blood.  He looked like hell.  The dog stood resolute beside him, his broad body and shoulders easily aiding the older man in standing up straight.  Surprise was on all three faces as they saw him alive, Renwyck’s even more noting how much bigger the hound looked now.

“How in the hell?” Gideon began as he stood up beside Pris and Emma.

“Mr Candell,” Pris began with a broken voice before stopping and changing her tone to her usual sharp tongue, though the tears still slipped down her cheeks.  “Mr Candell, if you insist on trying to get yourself killed I would appreciate it if you didn’t do it so far away.  Or with my friend.”

“I will keep that in mind, Ms Adams.”

“You say that now,” Pris reached up to angrily wipe her face before she pulled Emma gently up to her feet.  “Come on Emma, we’re getting out of here.  I’ve got you.”

The inventor would look up cautiously from the safety of her friend’s embrace to the faces of their rescuers.  Recognizing them all and feeling a sense of relief at being saved from the now defunct monster that nearly ended them both.  She didn’t care how they got there or why these three came instead of anyone else.  She just knew people she loved had come for her and they rescued her.  She smiled behind her shattered glasses again as she sniffed looking at each of them to show them she was going to be alright.  Even the woman who stood back the way they had come was smiling to her and it brought an unsteady peace to her heart.  She was a tall handsome woman, blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun with plain but well made lavender robes about her.  The purple meshed well with the brightly lite green eyes that laughed back at Emma, her hands raised to her in gratitude.

“Emma, what are you looking at?”  It was Ren who asked, his familiar voice close to her as she took in a shaky breath and smiled weakly to him.

“Nothing,” Emma blinked and swallowed with that same weak smile. 

“Just a shadow.”

(Thanks for the ask @whimsicallyart and to everyone for letting me play with their characters)

Featuring: @emma-tidesinger @eldridgecandell @priscilla-adams @gideon-beresford @renwyck

[deeisace]

Over My Dead Body

Mildred E Bird - as printed in the Barnston Writers anthology 2008

(Tw: death, depression)

The woman in the black coat stepped towards the bus at the same time as the soldierly man.

"You were here before me," she said.

He actually touched the brim of his hat. "No, go ahead." His face was kind.

"For heavens sake, get on! Find us two seats together!" The strident voice cut the air like a knife and heads turned to stare.

"Thank goodness she isn't talking to me," thought the black coated woman, as she hurried to an empty seat and sat down. She was soon joined by another woman. The man slipped into the seat behind them, head down.

"You would choose this side of the bus. You know I like a window seat." The harsh voice was loud. For a second, the whole bus seemed suspended in an awkward silence. No one moved or spoke. The man said quietly, "Do you want to move then?"

He moved across the bus without a glance at his wife, and sat rigidly beside her. He looked straight ahead, his knuckles white on the handle of his walking stick.

"Fancy speaking to him like that. How humiliating, poor man." The woman in black spoke in a stage whisper.

"More fool him to put up with it," her companion sniffed. She did not bother to lower her voice. Bitterness rose in the man's throat. What did she know about it? His expression was stony as he tried to analyse his feelings. He should be used to it by now, this wearing away of his spirit, the gradual suffocation.

"My life has disappeared!" The thought startled him. "It's true, I'm not really alive, I just exist. Like water wearing away a stone, the erosion has been gradual, almost unnoticeable."

As he stared out of the window he recalled his lost dreams. Retirement - long quiet days by the river, fishing. Benjy barking and splashing in the shallows, frightening the fish. Jaunts in the new car. Quiet enjoyment. Now it was all so different, and his fishing rod had mysteriously disappeared.

"Lost in the move," she'd said.

The car rarely saw the light of day. "No need to waste our bus passes," she'd said. Even poor Benjy had not survived long. The old labrador was used to lying under the desk in his office, and the semi-imprisonment of a kennel was too much for him.

When he'd left the army he'd felt he owed his wife something for all the time she'd spent alone. He was not a man for great displays of affection, but he had tried to be a good husband. His pension was generous, and she was never short of anything. The house was her domain, and she ran it efficiently, but it had remained a house, never a home. Where had it all gone wrong?

She had seemed so utterly feminine, with her fluffy blonde hair and blue eyes. In need of protection, he'd thought. He almost laughed aloud, and then his face screwed up as if in pain. Their courtship had been brief. He was due to be posted abroad and wanted her with him. She had been the perfect officer's wife, a good organiser, fun at parties and a splendid sportswoman. He had been so proud of her. Proud of the way she ran their lives so smoothly. Had he been weak? Before he'd been aware of it her wishes had become demands, her requests, commands. By then it was far too late.

She dug him sharply in the ribs, and the bus came back into focus.

"Come on, get off."

He stepped back to allow her to lead the way. She liked to get off first, just as she preferred the window seat.

As he passed the woman in the black coat he was aware of her pitying glance, and flushed. He looked at his wife's retreating back, and the desire to place the palm of his hand against it and send her flying onto the pavement almost overwhelmed him. Shocked, he curled his thin fingers into a fist and thrust his hand into his pocket.

That evening, as he lay in the bath, his thoughts were disturbed. They turned this way and that, like razor blades, sharp and piercing. He shivered. The water was getting cold, so he turned the hot tap on again. He slid down and rested his feet on the sides of the bath, to avoid the scalding stream. Idly, he studied his fingers, shrivelled and wrinkled like pale prunes from their soaking in the water.

A sudden loud hammering on the door made him jump. Water splashed onto the floor.

"Why have you got the tap running?"

He didn't answer. Her voice was never soft, or persuasive.

"Hurry up, I want to get to sleep."

Wearily he turned off the tap and reached for a towel. The rush and gurgle of the water as the bath emptied drowned out his thoughts, and he was grateful. He cleaned the bath carefully. As he dried himself, he studied his reflection in the mirror. He was still attractive he decided without vanity, and fit for his age.

"You've a few years left in you old boy," he told himself. The thought depressed him. Horrifyingly, he wished for an end. More horrifying was the realisation that he wanted an end to her. A faulty electric plug, a too sharp knife, treacherous currents, all invaded his nightmares and too often his waking thoughts. What was happening to him?

"I thought you'd drowned." Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. Astonished, he stared at her.

"Drowned?" he echoed stupidly.

Lying rigidly beside her in the comfortable bed a small incident slithered back into his mind. He'd been looking in the window of the sports shop as he waited for her to come out of the library to join him. The colourful fishing rods fascinated him. Such an array, such variety.

"I think I'll take up fishing again," he'd said.

Her reply had been short; "Over my dead body."

Now, as he listened to her rising snores, the nightmares began again.

When he woke, his head was heavy and his thoughts were still in a turmoil.

"An end, an end, an end," on and on it went, like a record stuck in a groove.

"I must pull myself together" he thought despairingly.

"Find something to do," she commanded. "Help me clear the table. You haven't forgotten we're going to the library?" He shook his head mutely and followed her into the kitchen.

-

This time, he was careful to choose seats on the right side of the bus. He sat stiffly, holding the library books in a string bag on his lap. They slithered about awkwardly, and he made no attempt to stop them.

"Give them to me," his wife snapped. She almost snatched the bag from him. He stared in front, and took refuge in silence.

"Get off, get off, we'll miss the stop." He came back through fog and half stumbled down the bus in a daze. His wife followed him and the string bag over her arm bumped into the back of his legs. She jabbed him between the shoulder blades with her finger in irritation.

"Hurry, hurry, he's not stopping." As the bus drew up, he stepped down and turned to take her arm. She was talking to the driver, and they both looked angry. She swung away towards the door and the bag of books flew out behind her as the door closed. He had just touched her elbow when she was wrenched from his grasp. He felt, rather than heard, her head collide with the bus shelter. Inside the bus, a woman screamed. The driver slammed on the brake and the door flew open. As if in slow motion the string bag fell out, spilling its contents onto the ground. In a trance, the man stared down at the crumpled figure at his feet. Her sightless eyes stared back at him. Her mouth was open, but, for once, no sound came out.

Shock plays strange tricks. Nothing of this ghastly scene registered in his mind. As he raised his head, all he could see was a window full of bright new fishing rods.

[gigiree]

Retrouvailles 6

Ch 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6: Hello Old Friend

Plagg is annoying and ancient, but there’s something sweetly vulnerable in the way he likes to sleep curled up in the palm of her hand. She feels ever so guilty, that she keeps this secret from Adrien. That the piece he’s missing sits right here, squarely in her fingers.

Still, she’s powerless to do anything but curl her sleepy leaves around the little god and hold his wry remarks close until she feels awake enough to answer his questions for the day.

“It’s raining again.” He remarks drowsily, one of his ears flicking against the base of her thumb.

She hums in content, peering over at him through half lidded eyes and the wisps of a dream still clinging onto her thoughts. The drizzle is quick and darting, a thousand reminders of life knocking against the glass. It’s late evening. The sun has just set. But her heater is on, and she feels a little like a flower in a greenhouse. Safe. Warm. Guilty.

“Why are you here?” The words tilt from the corner of her mouth, slow and oozing and unwanted because it feels like she’s looking a gift uh..cat in the maw. But if he is here, that means someone else is alone.

She wants Plagg here. She’s already felt her heart’s garden prepare a little plot of soil for him, already let her flowers cradle his presence like an old friend.

(Careful, lest your vines twine too tight and he becomes a trellis instead, she reminds herself.)

He stretches a bit, his tail twitching against her forearm, and his mouth opening in the tiniest little yawn. His green eyes are sharp, cutting through her sleepy fog like lamplight. His claws are somehow less sharp against the flesh of her hand.

“I was bored.”

She thinks this answer is the worst sort of lie, but there’s hurt in his large eyes and she decides not to pry further. Instead, she buries her head into her pillow and pulls him closer to her, much to his half-hearted protests.

“I’m bored too. It...it’s annoying.”

She does not expect the little sharp claws to press deep into her skin. She does not expect the sudden energy that seems to crackle around the little black cat with alacrity. She pulls her hand and her face away from him with a yelp, and look at him with annoyance, sleep entirely scared away, only to be met with tiny tiny fangs glinting at her with a wild smile and eyes glittering with impatience. His fur is on end and the hairs on the back of her neck are too.

“Then let’s do something about it.” He says matter-of-factly while glancing at the silver ring that hangs jauntily around her neck.

Her scratched up fingers come to curl around the ring. It feels oddly warm now, nearly buzzing with the shared energy Plagg seems to be feeding it. It is somehow familiar and not. It’s more chaotic, a thing of ebb and flow that makes her feel a pit of anxiety curl tight in her stomach. It winds up her muscles, roots through the garden and raises the sleeping blooms in her heart until she wants to scream or run.

She rises from her tangle of sheets, meets Plagg’s wild grin with a careful one of her own, and finally embraces the entropy.

“Just once...Transform me, Plagg.”

----

If one were to ask Adrien why he chose to open up a flower shop, there would be two possible answers.

One was that it was the surest and best way to use his one of his hard earned bachelor's degrees and the most enticing way of disappointing all his father’s expectations.

The second answer was a little more complicated, a lot more selfish, and whole lot more cunning.

The second answer involves a bit of biology. As the saying goes, you trap more flies with honey, than with vinegar. But to catch a ladybug, you need a pest.

(Or maybe the saying is just about flies, but a ladybug is what he seeks.)

You need something that doesn't belong and something that inherently hurts whatever flowers you're tending to.

So he becomes the pest. Houses his trap in a garden of flowers.

He remembers vaguely that Ladybug went to court once. To stop a very greedy, very stupid corporation from trying to trademark her image and her name.

(And after months of arguing about creative license and public domain shenanigans, Ladybug won. Her name was for the people, her image for those she protected.)

But Ladybug has been long gone. She's disappeared back behind a bunch of inky flowers, let her ribbons fall slack against her hair and all he knows now is that she's closer to a black cat than a beetle at this point.

See his carefully crafted trap, gilded in silver and glass and petals, was like a Venus fly trap. Ready to snap, snap snap gently to catch his lady. Ready to welcome a heated fight regarding his choice of name...choice of logo...choice of theme.

What he hadn't anticipated was that he was going to have to catch a stray cat.

And cats are oh so much more sneaky about their business.

But he loves her just as much, because she still smiles sweetly and still cares enough to ask for his address.

And he still loves her enough, with that old sort of fond nostalgia, to respect her secrecy and not bring up the fact that she'd given him a clue about who she might be behind those large sunglasses.

He remembers the agreement they made. The promise she had kept and that he had broken in the meanest, ugliest way he could have thought up in that young, romantic sort of way. A base entitlement he hadn’t been aware he could be guilty of, but one that crested his thoughts of her with shame.

He needs to set things to rights. He expects nothing from her. He only needs her to know that he is sorry.

He looks one more time at Chloe’s text message, his fingers trembling with excitement.

From Chloe:

Hey, did she get there okay? Did it help?

To Chloe:

Yeah she did. Thanks...Chloe. Do you know how I can contact her again to tell her thanks too?

From Chloe:

I can't tell you. But if it helps, she's just doing what any old friend would do.

Adrien is unsure what that means entirely. Comprehension eludes him just as surely as the rain slips past his window pane and he's still a little lost.

But his heart’s garden is blooming just a little bit and his flower shop is open for business again. Or at least, it had been all day. It’s nearing closing time, and after a fair amount of traffic, he’s tired.

So he packs his things into his satchel in that usual, careful way he does to make sure that Plagg is comfortable.

He stills for a moment, staring blankly at the tidily folded scarf tucked just far away enough from the novel he is currently reading, all so that a very tiny someone could nap nicely on.

He feels his eyes burn a bit, so he closes his bag quickly and gives one last glance at his shop, bidding a fond goodnight to his lovely flowers and to Plagg, wherever he may be.

And he wishes for three things. To give Plagg a proper goodbye. To find a more permanent sort of satisfaction in his life. And to tell her all he needs to, just once.

Even if it means writing the last page of their story.

----

She is entirely a being of this wildly, strangely, beautiful, terrifying world. If being Ladybug had felt like she could create a thousand beginnings, being...this...inky, dark person feels like she can create a thousand endings.

Similar in a way to the feelings she gets when she completes a new piece on a client. Permanence. Acceptance that what’s done is done, and that change will come to that story as with any other.

The flowers on her bare arms have been stained black, dropped their old petals and grown anew into flowers she recognizes as hellebore, dripping down her right shoulder. Dark hollyhocks rise proudly on her left arm, curling petals gracing her neck to meet a ring of delicate, black morning glories trumpeting a warm welcome as they tuck into the high neck of her new attire.

Her new garden sways with her unsteady steps, the soles of her long black boots having slipped on a few loose, wet tiles. But she keeps leaping and twisting between the Parisian rooftops, relying on her newly sharp sight to guide her manic run.

The rain is nothing more than a cold, brisk welcome against her heated skin. She feels alive, her every cell writhing with the scents drifting into her nose. Here, the vaguely green scent of La Seine. There, the sweetness of freshly baked bread and the bitterness of coffee interlaced. The cloying sweetness of the perfume department in the department store she’s just passed.

Lights glinting like stars and people smiling like stars and living and laughing. It’s just like the sounds she hears through her apartment walls, simply amplified through the new feline ears that have nestled above the long hair trails behind her.

She is enthralled enough that when she finally stops, she is taken by surprise to where her feelings had lead her.

A balcony. Her old balcony, still ringed with burnt out fairy lights and decorated with empty pots of varying sizes. She treads lightly, remembering the Maman is a light sleeper, and the last thing she wants is for them to run up to an old roof that should be empty, and to see her like this.

They wouldn’t recognise her, but she’s still far too unsure of herself in this form. She wants one night, one time, where this is only hers. Still the guilt nips at her thoughts in the same way Plagg’s claws had pressed into her skin.

She wonders if he’s not trying to tell her something.

Her eyes alight on the large bush of red roses that’s still growing after all this time. Hardy, large flowers with stubborn thorns waving angrily in the wind and rain.

She gives them a soft smile, using her new claws to pick a rose with most of its petals intact, cradling the bloom in the gentle way she remembers him doing so long ago. The leaves brush softly against her fingers, but the feeling is muted underneath her gloves and the thorns don’t bother her much either.

Still, she swipes them off the base of the stem. His silly words from years ago echo in her memories, newly dusted off with the rain.

“Hey there Princess! Flower you on this beautiful night?”

She lets out a disbelieving laugh at her train of thoughts, but makes her decision. Her tail lashes against her legs as she leaps off into the night, cradling the fragile bloom against the harshness of the weather.

---

He’s beautiful in a way she hadn’t really thought of before. Fragile in the warm light of the lantern’s he’d strung all around his balcony, hidden behind all the greenery he could fit in the small space.

His hair is a mess. Golden strands all on end, some drifting into his eyes and some sticking up vaguely like antennae. His tired eyes are wide, green and full of emotion.

It’s all soft and gentle underneath this gilded light, even with the night deep and full behind her.

She feels like an imposter under his scrutiny, and she crosses her arms tighter, and tries to hide the rose out of sight. Guilty she may be, but this isn’t exactly her fault.

Plagg had shown up on her nightstand of his own accord.

But then she sees Adrien’s fragility. Really looks at his broad shoulders slumped underneath a maroon sweater, and his gray sweatpants clinging to his hips and his pretty smile broken into a grimace.

This isn’t exactly his fault. It was circumstance.

She thought he’d been happier. Too bright for her to welcome him easily into her new life. Too big for her to fit one more word for him on her pages.

She’d been wrong.

The rain falls loudly in back of her, and she rests her back against the frigid railing trying to figure out what to say.

He beats her to it.

“Hello there, old friend.” He smiles, and he is once again, bright.

But she finds that with her new sight, behind her new mask, she can handle it. She can smile on back, if a little bit confused.

She wonders if he recognizes her, even with the glamour that came standard with having a little god on your person and entwined in your spirit.

“Hello...Adrien.”

He looks apologetic as soon as his name falls from her mouth.

“I’m sorry. It’s so late. Did Plagg make you come here?” He’s wringing his hands in the hem of his sweater, cheeks flushed and his face contorted with concern.

There he is, her friend from so long ago.

(But he’s always been himself, she chides. It’s her who’s been hiding.)

She shakes her head and then pauses.

“Actually...maybe...I think he wants you to know that he’s okay.” She places a hand to the ring that still hangs from the silver chain, obvious against all the black that rings her arms and neck.

Adrien apologizes again.

She tells him emphatically not to worry.

“Is there any threat? Is that why…” He trails off, anxious for the answer.

“No. Nothing like that. Stopped a robbery or two on the way here though.” She shrugs, as if saving people were an everyday occurrence. (To be fair, it had been back in the day.) She refuses to shirk that same old heavy feeling of responsibility that’s finally settled itself on her shoulders again. It feels...good...somehow.

“Did you have fun?”

She sighs and nods.

“You have a lot of questions.”

He laughs.

“You don’t have very many answers, and you’ve been very patient with me. Thank you for that.”

She doesn’t miss the look of longing Adrien shoots behind her, to the lights winking and the city still awake, even in the rain.

“I’m sorry.” She says quietly.

It’s his turn to tell her not to worry.

“It’s...not like I could transform anyway.” He laughs a little hollow, and runs his hands through his already worried hair. “I made sure people knew who I was. It wouldn’t have been the best idea to keep being Chat Noir.”

He steps forward, brushing past some ferns until he’s right in front of her. Until he’s looking right into her bluebell eyes, and she can see the freckles that shift with his expressions and the the large shadows in the hollows of his sockets.

Sharp, petrichor scents mingle with the deep, slightly nose tingling smell of his cologne and she wrinkles her nose to stifle a sneeze.

Nervous, kinetic energy leaps up from the raindrops hitting the floor, makes its way into the space between them, until she’s unwinding herself from and stretching towards him.

She’s abandoned herself to the recklessness of entropy, ink spilled on a page to obscure the plot.

He is still careful, poised as to not scare her away.

Her smile is dangerous, thrilling as she curls his fingers around the thornless rose. His eyes are huge and pretty, his breath shaky as she leans closer and places her soft lips on his cheek, the slight stubble at the edge of his jaw is strange and unfamiliar.

She remembers with a bit of sadness how young they’d been when she’d first kissed him, kisses a youth with smooth cheeks and cologne too strong because he hadn’t really known how much was too much.

“You should keep the rose. It matches your sweater” She tells him as she pulls away, and lifts a long leg over his railing. She thinks a bit, and decides that masks are all well and good, but there comes a point when they must come off. She looks over her shoulder once more, and says-

“It was good to see you again, old friend.”

She leaps out into the night, into rain and blurry lights that look a bit like stars if he squints. He thinks she might have disappeared into a space full of stars, for all her mystery and warmth.

He holds the rose close, traces the drops on its petals with trembling fingers as he tries so very hard to piece things together. Although that may difficult, with all the ink running on the pages of his thoughts.

[callmealios]

House of memories

AN : Okay so this is my first work, on Wattpad too. (Most of them will be on Wattpad first actually).

Basically, this work was for my french class, but my teacher told me that it was really good and that she liked my writting. And a friend told me that I should post it somewhere and so here I am. The thing is, I think it sounds more pretty in French than in English so yeah. I'm usually not of that opinion but I am right now. (This doesn't make any sense)

Also I just had an idea that every chapter title will be one of a music, sometimes the music will match the vibe of the chapter and sometimes not, this one don't, so don't listen it even tho i put it for credits.

I'm pretty sure nobody will see or read this lmao but if you do well thank you. Hope you're having a good day.

I see a lot of people doing this so here it is : This works contains 553 words.

"Here I am, fifteen years later,

in front of  my childhood house.

With a decided movement, I opened the big and old gate, and entered the vast garden flooded by the crossed of time.

On my left, differents animals statues were still up, soak of paint stain made by me and my brother when we were innocents childs.

I smiled while remembering this and turned my head towards the end of the path, moving forwards. 

Not being looked after the servants anymore, the Manor's grass once so flat, perfect for my father's so loved sports, was now getting to my knees.

I'm sure the "me", fifteen years ago would have passed all days playing in it, pretending to be the heroin of a book, instead of reading between the talls shelves from the library, daydreaming about dragons and myths. 

Picking up my toughts, I finally entered in the big house.

As squeaky as before, the door seemed less heavy to me than fifteen years ago. Closing it, I felt a familiar feeling, full of nostalgia, invades me, with a lot of memories as different as day and night.

The one who hits me the most were those about furnitures : the sofa, the wood fire and it's smell, the bookshelfs, the large carpets, the chandelier and the impressive curtains of yesteryear...

Everything was gone.

Nothing, the void.

Just an empty hall where my steps echoed, leaving me with deception.

Going upstairs, this familiar feeling amplified, who knows how much I went up and down ? Let's forget the time I broke my leg because I wanted to hug my aunt. I still remember how terrified I was when I saw the ground getting closer and closer, way to fast for me. According to my mother, my scream had been heard through the whole domain.

It is by reminding me of her, that I ran without hesitation, to her office.

In front of the door handle, my hand was shaking.

Too much questions were disturbing me. Will the painting of my great grand-mother is still be here ? The big desk too ?  The painting, the ink stain, the smell of coffee, the misplaced paper and the much talked about chair where my mother passed all her days on ? Will they still all be here ? 

Shaking my head, I decided to stop torturing my mind, and opened the door.

Strangely, the smell of coffee was the only thing left. The room was full of dust and moving boxes, reasons of my visit.

I closed the door, thinking the furnitures will magically appeared, unfortunatly they didn't.

The smell of coffee, my only hope, fills my nostrils and others memories, that I was thinking completly forgotten, came back, all at the same time :

The times when my mother taught me how to write, to read, to paint, to play violin; every times we did tickle fights, were we sang like we were to only one in the whole word, every time she told me the history of me ancestors; other memories a little bit more sad, and then, just like that, nothing else, nothingness.

As if my brain, my memory itself had reach its limit.

I couldn't think anymore. I couldn't remember my moment spent here, in this so much important room, at all.

The only thing I had in my head was her, my mother, and nothing else."

Feel free to suggest anything about my writing style :)

Love you, please take care <3

-Alios

[saskiel]

Kaylin Galanodel

This is the background story for my cleric elf in a 5e dnd campaign lead by my boyfriend. We’ve had quite a long break and when we started (almost two years ago) it was my first proper campaign. I wasn’t all that happy with my previous character so he allowed me to make a new character.

My previous character was also a cleric and I wanted to keep that, although she has a different domain that she answers to.

As per usual, please excuse any grammar mistakes. I had no beta and English is not my native language.

Now, on with the story :)

You wake up, your head is pounding and your back feels stiff as if you didn’t move in a while. Slowly your eyes crack open and you take a look around you. Not much too see, other than flickering light from a small fire nearby and figure sitting on the other side of it. You, being the lowlife that you are, have been to plenty of smelly caverns to be able to recognize one. Even the wet feeling is here to confirm your theory.

As you try to flex your muscles to relief them a bit, you notice that your hands are tied very securely as well as your ankles. Your movement, however small it has been, has attracted the attention of the person still partially hidden in the shadows.

“Finally awake I see, I was starting to think that I hit your head a little too much and you were gonna die.” She says as she moves closer to the flames, giving you a better idea of who captured you.

Because at this point there is no doubt in your mind that that is exactly what is happening here. Hell, you’ve been the one sitting as leisurely as this woman is many times prior to this. You never thought that the places would be reversed.

“Who are you and what do you want from me? My comrades can pay you money if that’s what you are after.” Your voice is a little rough from the lack of using it for God knows how long, but you manage.

She only smiles. You are not sure if you imagined it, but there was a sadness to it. One thing is for sure, you never looked at your victim in such a way and it puzzles you a little.

“No money can give me back what you’ve stolen from me. As for your comrades, they will never even find you.” She turns her head to the side. Before she continues in a very soft voice.

“We are, after all, very alone here.”

Your buddies would often make fun of you when it came to the bravery. He’s a little scaredy-cat, they’d say, sometimes they’d make clucking noise behind your back. You were starting to understand when you felt your heartbeat rise up, panic gripping at you.

“I’ll give you anything you want, I will do anything you want - just let me go.” Although it comes out in a little higher pitch than you’d have liked, you needed to get out of this situation – fast.

For a little while, there has been no sound other than the cracking and hissing of the wood being burned. A small twig let out a loud pop and broke down to two charred pieces, falling to the ash bellow them. A tiny puff of dust rose from the bottom, only to be ignited instantly, making it look like there were fireflies. The moment seemed to stretch to infinity and you were about to start begging for your life when she finally nodded her head.

“Fine, I’ll let you leave, if you will hear my story. It would seem my life is about to change again and there is no one that I can talk to about it. After that, you’ll be free, I give you my word.” The woman speaks slowly as if she was still deciding her words.

You find it a little strange but decide not to look in the mouth of a gift horse and you dip your head eagerly.

She takes off her hood and you see the pointy ears, peaking out of her dark hair. If you weren’t sure before, now you know with certainty, that your captor is an elf. She takes a deep breath and her gaze is pointed at the dancing flames. Then, without any announcement, she starts talking again.

“My parents aren’t bad people. They are good citizens of the city they live in and they have been making money with their trades for many years now. But, as it usually is, they were afraid of the unknown.

“I was their firstborn child, nearly two and half centuries ago. We’ve been a happy family. My father used to spoil me rotten and my mother would chastise him for it, although just for show, as she’d slip me the best piece of meat from the dinner without father noticing.” She smiles fondly, and although she’s sitting not even two meters away from you, you get the feeling that she is not truly here with you.

“Ever since I was a child, I was always curious about the world, but my parents insisted that I am too young to go anywhere on my own. It’s true that I was young and naïve, but back then, I detested them for not allowing me what I wanted. Did you ever felt like that with your parents?” Her eyes bore into yours.

You, not exactly sure what answer she’s fishing for, hesitantly shake your head. Sure, your parents would forbid things to you all the time, but in the end, that wasn’t the reason you left home. Seeing your answer, your captor makes a grimace that is closest described as a grin.

“Guess you got that going for you. But with time, even I understand that my parents were not wrong. When I started showing an affinity for magic, they had me attend our community church, as we were lucky enough to have few priests and even clerics who were tired of traveling and stayed in our city.

“I was making very slow progress with spells, but Dragor, a dwarf cleric, was very patient with me. Almost three times my age, I knew he saw something of himself in me. I was always thirsty for his stories of his adventures and his ability to heal was second to no one I’ve ever met. We had good times, Dragor and me. But then the war broke and he was called to arms.” The elf’s face saddens. Although you don’t particularly care, you are just listening so that you’d be released, you can’t completely shake the feeling of empathy.

“I begged that old fool to take me with him. But he stood with my parents and denied me, just as they did. I remember being so angry with him, so much that it made my blood boil and my head was spinning. In pure rage, I hit him with my fist. It wasn’t such a hard punch, but he yelped in pain. I felt it then, the power surging through me. My parents who were witnessing this exchange started yelling at me to apologize, but I did not even hear them. I saw that look that Dragor was giving me and at that moment I understood that he knew. I turned on my heel and I ran away to the woods, voices of my parents silently echoing behind my back.

“When I returned the next morning, Dragor was already dead. Priests said that he died in the night.”

The woman stays silent for a while as if she’s collecting her thoughts. You don’t dare to say anything, just shifting uncomfortably in your spot, thinking that your back will start cramping soon probably. When she continues her story again, her voice sounds a little harder than it did before.

“Everyone thought that old age got to him, but my parents saw what happened and they knew it wasn’t the case. They never said anything to anyone, but they stopped speaking to me after that. And in just a few days, I woke up to an empty house. On the table was a letter that they can’t be around me and that if I want things to stay secret, I will leave them alone.

“For the first time in my existence, I agreed with them. That did not stop me from finding them, though. It was not hard, even without any proper experience of an adventurer, I knew plenty of tracking from Dragor. They got themselves a pretty house in Cedos, a lot bigger city than where we used to live. It hurt, but I was happy for them.

“Being all grown up now, I decided to take Dragor’s call to arms and joined the army. I knew some fighting, but what the dwarf taught me the most was healing. I was very valued, being switched from regiment to regiment. Soon after I started building a reputation for myself and I was climbing up the ranks. I am not gonna lie to you, some of those were because of man in a higher position who missed the flesh of a woman. I didn’t mind.”

Once again, she is silent for a while. When she opens her mouth again, her voice is almost void of emotions.

“I was colonel of the third regiment. I led my men to the battle of Dara’Gool.”

It takes you a second, but you remember that the battle of Dara’Gool happened almost a century ago, way before you were even born. But it is a story that gives chills to anyone even to this day. It was one of the bloodiest and messiest battles in the whole war. One, which almost lost the war for you all.

She pulls out something from below her cloak. The flames reflect on an old necklace on a chain.

“This belonged to my second in command. I should not have survived that bloodshed, but he made sure I did. To this day I hear the screams of my men.” She puts the trinket back where she took it from.

“It is not like there were any official records, but everyone thought I was dead. There were too many bodies to do a proper search in any case. I did what I knew best and I fled, like a coward, again. I wanted to see my parents and beg them for forgiveness. But I found them with another child. I had a sister. I knew that I could not possibly bring my old problems back to them, they seemed so happy. So I wandered around the world, mostly in solitude, helping out for a few silver pieces to be able to afford food and a bed. I never stayed long in one place, always feeling like I had to move forward.

“About four decades ago I stumbled upon a group of mercenaries. For a second I thought I was a ghost. There was a dwarf with them who looked just like my old friend, Dragor. I could not help myself and I asked them if I could share a meal with them. They just got their pay from a bounty they had captured so being in a good mood they did not even hesitate.”

Your captor looks down at her nails, looking lost in thoughts again. You are uncertain about what she might be thinking about, but your eyes roam around her form. She’s sitting down, so it’s little harder to tell how tall she might be, but you are guessing she is probably smaller than you. The flames are creating shadows on her coppery skin. Her hair falls loosely to her shoulders and it looks like there is a red sheen to it. You can’t be too sure, it might just be the fire playing tricks on you. It’s definitely dark though. Her eyes are reflecting the light just fine and they sparkle just like the emerald ring that your comrade stole from a noblewoman not too long ago. You pawned it for a good money.

Before you can notice anything more, she starts talking again, as if remembering that there was a story to be told.

“They were a merry bunch, you know. Always up to something and taking jobs that no one else would. I offered them my healing services and they took me in. Together we were called the Sick Ponies. For a time I felt like I had a family again. Whenever I had the chance, I would go and check up on my actual family as well as my sister. She was growing into a beautiful woman. Although she didn’t know I even existed, I was proud of her. Sometimes I would pass by her in the market, just to be close to her. She never even once turned and looked at me.

“Then, slowly, people in our party either retired or died. You can’t save everyone, you know? But we had a good run. Made a lot of money and spend probably even more, somehow. I learned a lot while traveling with them. But never once I told them about Dragor. Never once I explained why I would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. Never once I mentioned Dara’Gool.

“Just a few years ago, I’ve heard about my little sister also choosing the adventurous life. You cannot imagine how happy and excited for her I’ve been. It has taken me a while, but I’ve tracked her down. And you know what? I felt like maybe it was time to tell her everything. That I’m her sister and try to forge a bond with her that would last our lives. She was traveling with a group named Team Pink Rocket.”

You get the sense that you’ve heard that name before. After all, such a ridiculous name is hard to forget, but you can’t really place it. On top of that, you are starting to lose feeling in your legs from your sitting position.

Your captor slowly stands up, just so that she can crouch in front of you. The fire is now behind her back and you can immediately feel the loss of warmth, but that doesn’t let you down, because she is probably almost done with her story and you will be released soon.

“I was so proud to see my little sister being a strong and powerful cleric, nothing can elder sibling make happier than to see that similarity. She looked just like a younger version of me. Now, I need you to focus. Imagine getting ready to share all of this with your sister, which you’ve loved even if you never spoke to her. Imagine finding a perfect gift for her as a token for her forgiveness for all the time lost. And then imagine seeing her dead by such a lowlife such as yourself.”

She almost spits out the last sentence and you are no longer certain if the loss of heat is because of her blocking the flames, or if there is chill emanating from her. Whichever it is, you have a very bad feeling about this and you try to squirm, as if trying to get further away from her, but your legs no longer cooperate with you.

“Her name was Shi’Larra Galanodel and you were the one who plunged a dagger into her heart.”

You now remember where you’ve heard the crazy name before. You know of whom she’s speaking about. Your eyes go wide with recognition and you want to scream, but just as you open your mouth, she swiftly covers it with her hand.

“Now, screaming won’t do you any good. I told you already, we are very alone here. I also gave you my word that you will be free. And I intend to keep my word.”

Then, you feel it. Where her skin touches yours. She is draining your life force.

Petrified, you can only stare into her green eyes.

You remember the ring again, the one that you pawned for a good coin. You think of Mad Peter, the one who stole the ring, making a clucking noise behind your back. Your memories also take you back to your parents, who wanted you to be a carpenter and marry Eva from the neighbors.

Or maybe Daisy, she was the daughter of the major. You are thinking that life with Daisy probably wouldn’t be that bad. You can feel your life slowly slipping away from you, but you can only think of Daisy. You’d work at your workshop during the day and in the evening she’d have a hot soup ready for you. She’d kiss you on your lips and thanked you for your hard work. Then you’d make love to her in a bed that you’ve made for her, as a wedding gift. You’d be happy.

A tear escapes from your eye, sliding down your cheek and touching the hand that is still clasped over your mouth. Two pricy, emerald rings are starring back at you - they are also crying. That’s foolish, rings can’t cry. You’d never make Daisy cry. You’d be good to her.

  You no longer see the elf pull her hood back and douse the fire. You don’t hear her whisper “Life for a life.” She just turns around, after picking her things up, and leaves. Soon after there is a loud thunder noise, which people from the nearby city will simply think of as an approaching storm. As the entrance to the cave gives in, the body inside slowly getting cold, a lone figure sets on a journey to find Team Pink Rocket. She would honor her sister’s life by standing in her place. It is her duty as an older sibling. She will also find out whoever was behind the death of her sister and lay waste to them.

[avalindin]

Precious Cargo

Ronan/GotG fic

Chapter 12: Moving forward

_____

Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

_____

He sealed his eyes and was glad that Thanos chose to spare him for the moment or else he would have gotten sick of his pain. Behind his eyes, he saw her. He always envisioned Katja in any form, carnal or as plan and dull as day, tied bare or clothed and hold their child so that his suffering was eased a fraction. Ronan lost count of the days and the others that were in the cells near him. His bones were familiar with the strength of Thanos’ fury but soon it would all be over.

Whatever thoughts weren’t of Katja and their son, they would be of his failing to will his body to repair itself. As time went by, his bruises took longer to heal and his words became more erratic. Katja was safe and no matter how much blood the titan made him draw, he would know that his wife was safe. His heart was failing him as he laid bleeding out and internally, so close to death. His heart broke, feeling he may have had to break his promise to Katja, never to see their son or her ever again.

His sight blurred, seeing the rock cell around him dance with shadows and light. He couldn’t keep track of time with the days bleeding together. Another bone to snap, more dark blood to fall for the floor.

He woke with a hit to his head and his large body pulled along for only more pain and suffering. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve it. He was a radical bastard long before he’d met Katja. Flickers of doubt crossed his mind many times.

“Fear not, child of Kree.”

It was a voice that did not belong to Thanos or one that he had known before. It was almost comforting; a male’s tone that was similar in content with his wife’s. The voice appeared again and so that it would hurt less. He forced his unswollen eye to see a flicker of an illusion staring to him. One moment, a bruised young man with hair as dark as his own soul had once been, and another, he turned aged and weary as a single golden eye looked to him.

“Our freedom will come soon enough…”

A hard hand struck him awake again as he coughed out the blood lingering in his mouth. Ronan’s painful groans echoed the sanctuary as Thanos began to smile less. He longed to stomp the Kree deep into the recesses of his domain. His body was dragged through the valley beneath him and he was growing tired of accommodating to the Kree traitor’s anatomy. Thanos waited on the edge of his balcony as he looked down to Ronan stretched as far as his limbs would allow.

His eye opened again, seeing he golden demon titan looking upon him. The humming sound under his chin turned his attention away as several large needles inched closer to his skin. His head was forced back as Thanos’ voice rang clearly in his ears.

“Now you will know an eternity of hell, boy…”

The voice in his throat was unable to scream in complete agony as the needles pierced his skin again and again.

“Worry not…”

He forced himself to focus on the voice.

“Find the Midgardian, child…”

Ronan involuntarily saw his one, his Katja. He knew her and his child were safe enough after all this time. He saw her hair still far and long and miscolored as it cascaded down her tattooed back. She turned to him at the feel of his shoulder. Katja had a moment to gasp in surprise as he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her back to the sheets. He knew her mind went for their baby.

The touch on her cheek was very much real as was the scent of her hair and skin. His lips caressed her neck. He would never forget it. Her skin prickled with feeling as she felt air sting her lungs. Something was wrong. She could no longer feel Ronan.

“Trash, trash. None of this is worth anything. Keep looking before we leave out.”

“Yes, sir.”

There were many things to do on the barren wastes of Contraxia. Machina brothels as far as the eye could see and it was a better dumping ground for those needing to let off the weight that they needed. Ravagers stayed behind, grown bored with the laughter and harbor liquor to keep them company. A shift changed as the tired ones before shuffled back to the ships as the rested, perturbed ones stretched their legs for the hours ahead.

There was a shoulder here and there that were pushed aside. Voices rose and guns were cocked. Punches flew through the air as the Captains were forced to break up their people. A single pistol fired into one of the frozen lakes on the edge of town causing the hundreds of men to watch the cracking ice beneath them.

“Who in the hells fired that?! Guns down!”

They all almost turned for their business when the ice hundreds of yards ahead of them spilt open with a strange heat to melt the snow before it would hit the ground. A worn bio-container appeared from the cracked ice as more heat reached the edge of the lake and melted the ice back to dirt. Its’ walls of scorching heat dimmed to a bearable sight. The men stared in awe as the container hit the side of the land, stopping safely.

“What the hell are you doing? Get it now!”

The men boarded scouting ships and gathered what equipment to pull the container further onto land. The large white bin cooled the more snow it was covered in. The fatigue soon disappeared as the captains stepped through the crowds of their men to properly examine the lit panels.

“Six years? Well, seems this piece of treasure is now as good as ours. Let’s get it opened!”

The captains left their Ravagers to work on the bio-container so they could celebrate the coming money they would get from their future findings. Raised voices from behind them stopped them as they reached the edge of the closest clamoring town as attention was brought their direction.

“Sir!”

“Just get the cargo to the barter station.”

“Sir! The barter station will turn us away.”

“Why would…”

The captain turned and absent mindedly looked down to the still frozen young woman with long flowing hair that rained behind her. Her blue skin was covered with bits of frost and ink.

“The hell?”

He pulled the covering from her frigid arms to see a small baby tucked away in her grip. The concern of the growing crowd forced them to shuttle her inside and into the barracks of the Machina’s workshop.

Katja could feel the world moving around her as she felt her arms forced apart.

No. No!

She felt the warmth of her baby gone as everything around her felt like a nightmare. His cries filled her with fear and forced the stinging breath in and out of her lungs. Her lashes stuck together but she could feel people around her and holding her fucking baby.

“You know the code. No dealing kids.”

“Think we can raise him better than Yondu did with Quill?”

“Pro’ly. Look how cute he is. We can give him back to the Kree war slavers.”

Peotrick wailed louder as he was handed from one Ravager to the next. Katja stumbled to her feet and launched herself forward onto one of them. She could feel the snap of two necks as she turned and heard the cry of her baby behind a closed door. Her hand wrapped around one of the Ravagers guns and set the firing rounds to the highest explosive round.

Stakar Ogord poured a round around the table for each of the other captains that rallied for the loss of Yondu. Well, they would when the rest arrived in a few hours. For now, he wanted to be with someone special

“Five years,” he beamed, “a record of new beginning for the team.”

“Then why are we the only ones here?”

Stakar took a shot of liquid for himself before pouring another for his woman, Aleta. She smiled and downed the shot her lover set before her.

“Just some time to reconnect, just the two of us like old times.”

“The old times was what disconnected us.”

The moment so easily turned sour as Stakar tried to smile. He enjoyed their time when he could.

“We’re still good for business.”

“Always good for business,” she smiled, giving him some hope for a remaining connection after so many years apart.

“Here’s to stealing shit.”

“To stealing shit.”

A loud explosion rocked the bar as many of the patron screamed and took cover. Stakar and Aleta rushed to their feet as their ears filled with screaming orders of their men. Stakar lifted his boot and kicked open the brothel door as their men had their guns pointed to a young pale woman panting in anger. Her gun was pointed to one of Stakar’s men as his own pistol was pointed to something in his arms.

“Don’t think I won’t kill you.”

“Don’t think I won’t kill it.”

Stakar fired a warning shot next to the Ravagers head, making the baby wail louder.

“Why don’t we all just lay our guns down and talk this out?”

“I want my baby.”

Katja coughed some rough vapor from her nose as she was distracted as the Ravager kicked her gun away. She stood terrified as the Ravager cocked the gun to her face. He smiled as the tattoo on her naked arm glowed.

“A purist goes for a lot of money in the right places.”

Aleta rolled her eyes and moved quickly through the crowd. Her eyes went for Katja’s changing skin. She’d never known a hybrid before but certain fascinations would wait for the time being. Stakar slid through the crowd with his hand to his gun and waited for Aleta. Katja met her eyes as she looked to the Ravager and pointed to her own self, then to his neck.

“Look, just give my little boy. Please…”

Stakar saw Aleta step forward and pulled the gun up. Aleta wrapped her arm around the Ravager’s arm and twisted it up as the baby slid from his arm. Katja sprang forward and snatched Peotrick to the safety of her arms while her body hit the dirty metal floor. Aleta tossed the Ravager over her shoulder. The throw was mighty enough for him to spin up through the air. Stakar blinked as his gun fired and put an empty space between his former worker’s eyes. The heavy dead body hit the floor in a wet thud. Onlookers were silent as Aleta stripped her long coat and covered Katja.

She nearly jerked the woman to her feet and pulled her to the nearest room that had a breakable door. She was stopped as Katja kicked up her foot into the woman’s face, knocking her down. She coughed her pain away.

“Look. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“It’s happened before and I’ll fucking gut every last one of you if you fucking touch me again!”

Aleta looked to her shaking as one hand slowly rocked her crying baby and the other with pointed a knife in her direction. Aleta undid her uniform and placed as many of her weapons on the ground as she could. She stripped the outer layer of herself so that she wouldn’t seem as threat.

“Please, let us start over. You have my word that these events were not supposed to unfold. What would I have to do to make sure that this will not escalate?”

Katja felt a great amount of discomfort run through her body. Her legs and arms were rubber and her sides still hurt like she had just given birth. That was when she thought of Ronan.

“I-I need to find my husband.”

“Is he here?”

Her hazed thoughts remembered the last time she saw him.

“Where am I?”

“Contraxia. An outpost for outlets you could say.”

Her ears were filled the soft techno music from outside. Over the rough looking woman’s shoulder were other types of creatures and identical yellow and silver robots that all looked to her.

“Your name? I am Aleta. He sounds hungry.”

Katja looked down to Peotrick as tears stained his perfect blue face. His small fists clutched at Nebula’s suit that was straining her post-birth body and her aching breasts.

“Katja. My name is Katja.”

“That’s good and his name?”

“We aren’t there yet,” she snarled.

“That is fine.”

“Aleta!”

Stakar stormed the room as Aleta shoved him back into the hall before Katja could react. Katja tried to keep her head on straight as she looked to the frozen scene around her. She remembered the sea that stretched out around her and Ronan’s voice.

I love you…

Katja emotions rushed out as she clung to her baby and pushed herself between the bed and the wall.

“This place has rules and she was disoriented at best.”

“Sir, please.”

“Let her stay and I will invite the other factions of Ravagers back. You have my word.”

The Keeper of the Machina brothel forced herself to nod and turn to deal with other matters of the establishment.

“Now what?”

“That was one of your undisciplined men with a weapon pointed to a newborn. She’s coming with me.”

“That was my man and for that, I’m granting her passage to my ship.”

“She woke, thought she was being captured again and I doubt it was a group of females that put her to slavery.”

“That makes her cargo, her and the baby.”

Aleta rolled her eyes again.

“Were you really not paying attention? She had Purist ink on her arm! She belongs to a high Kree husband.”

He arched his lip up, remembering freeing Yondu from the Kree.

“No. I know that look. She wasn’t forced into marriage. Kree don’t do that. For now, she stays with me.”

“Ah, which Captain do I speak to?”

Both turned their attention to one of Aleta’s female group as she held a copied manifest of the box. Aleta snatched it first and read it top to bottom as fast as her eyes allowed.

“Six years,” she huffed, “my women were mothers. She stays with me.”

“Is that all you’re gonna say?”

“Stealing shit was fun. Now we go back to how things were before.”

Aleta shut the door and pushed the heavy bed to keep it that way. She turned for the pale Kree and her loud baby. She stooped down to their level and wiped away a fraction of her tears. Katja snapped herself awake as she looked to Aleta fixing the coat to cover her chest for the baby. She took over and worked herself from the suit.

Aleta sat on the bed as Katja helped a starving Peotrick eat. Katja kept her eyes to the flashing lights outside the large windows.

“Who are you?”

“I don’t know…”

The suit fell down her back but she felt like she didn’t care. She was scared and tired and… safe as her eyes closed. Aleta moved to the floor and carefully wrapped her strong arm around Katja so she would not hit the floor.

“It’s been six years. Everything is going to hurt for a few days. We have the means on our ship to help you. For everything that has happened, we will help you look for your husband.”

“He’s not dead. I know…”

The bright lights blended together as she sighed and fell asleep.

Ronan…

His eyes snapped open, blinded by three suns on the edge of the sanctuary. He opened his mouth and pulled in what breath he could. He roared with life as his veins stung with the feel of her. Ronan screamed in joy, fading quickly into pain as it hurt him to use his voice. His limbs were heavy as he tried to lift them to no anvil.

“He’s marked you, Kree.”

His first eyes was still swollen to the flickering old man chained and bloodied. There was a smile in his old face as Ronan watched him be dragged away by his heavy chains. The familiar large hand wrapped around Ronan’s throat as Thanos lifted his failed child from the ground. He closed it a faction, sending pain to every point of the Kree’s body.

“Welcome back, Kree. Shall we get started?”

Thanos closed his hand around Ronan’s throat, using all of his strength to snap his neck. Ronan’s hands fell to his side and... he blinked. There was no way for his journey to be over so soon. A tear fell from him as one bone, two bones snapped back into place. Pain filled his throat.

Thanos smiled to the Kree slowly clawing his hand as he came back to life. It would keep him alive longer and the more he killed Ronan, the easier it would be to bring him back to life. Ronan gasped as his neck healed back to the eay it was before. Thanos dropped him to the ground and chuckled.

Ronan was confused as he rolled coughing to his side. Thanos jerked him up by his hair and kneed him hard in the face. His scream of pain filled him with joy. He reached for his arm next and snapped it clean in two. A few more bones here and there and he had to stop to catch his breath. Thanos fixed his armor and sat on his throne, observing the Kree.

Ronan’s head spun in agony as did the rest of his body. What hurt worse was when his body snapped back into place. As his arm fixed, he could no longer take the pain. He passed out, leaving Thanos to comb through his most sadistic thoughts to the fun he would have with the Kree. He motioned his servants and watched as Ronan was carried away. He kept his focus to the way he would make the Kree scream and forgot about the woman and the baby.

-

Katja sat up straight as she laced her boots and fixed her pants. After a few weeks, her stomach snapped back but her fingers would always trace the stretch marks. She struggled to close her jacket.

“Don’t worry. Take this one. I used it after I lost my gal.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“No, my gal was my sis. It was hers.”

Katja pulled her long hair up into a high bun and fastened her jacket a bit easier. It fit great across her chest and snapped to the belt of her waist. She pulled the knife and glanced to the long blade.

“Not much but it get the job done. Sorry those wankers can’t trust you with a gun.”

“The knife won’t miss.”

“We’ll see what your broker will think. He moved but he ain’t git too far to the other side of Xandar.”

“Hey, Pale Kree. He’s at it again.”

Katja rolled her eyes and ran down to the bunker that she was given. She slid down the ladder to the barracks as Peotrick’s cries were heard. She passed the other women that didn’t want to touch her child. They did, all missing the feel of a baby but they didn’t want to mess with the Kree.

“Who fucking touched him this time?”

Four women backed away from the baby and pointed to one another. Katja didn’t feel like dealing with them. She snapped her fingers and pointed to her bag on the other side of the room. One of them grabbed her bag and tossed to her. Katja reached into the bag frantically and pulled the folded tunic.

She stepped forward to her baby and leaned over so he could grab her. His tears streamed from his eyes as she could do nothing.

“Alright, fine.”

She shook the tunic loose and placed the unfolded mess in Peotrick’s arms. He turned his small face into the fabric and calmed his squealing. His small heaving breath stopped and he buried his nose deeper into the shirt.

“Amazing. How did that work?”

Katja stroked his head and kissed him goodbye for the time being.

“It was his father’s. That should keep him busy until I get back. I dare one of you fuckers to try and wash that tunic again.”

She didn’t trust but a few, Aleta and the women directly at her side to be near her child but hshe guessed babies of any species would have the same effect on women. Katja tightened her long brown and newly blue strands higher on her head.

“Ladies! Let’s go. Xandar awaits. Main group goes for supplies. Katja and the twins are with me. Once we touch down, meet back in an hour. We’re not staying.”

Katja held on to her part of the seat as she stared across to the twins. She couldn’t remember what they were but their scaled olive skin were identical down to the scales and sliced eyes. They checked their weapons and all strapped themselves in as the smaller ship broke the atmosphere and cleared themselves with the Nova Corps airspace.

Katja closed her eyes and held on to her seatbelt and remembered tumbling through the clouds to Contraxia’s summer water back when there was no ice. She exhaled and forced the memory away. Her mind did find Ronan for a moment but she had to focus.

Ronan laid weak on his cell floor and watched through her eyes the putrid sunlight of Xandar. He had an idea of where she was going.

“Katja...”

He touched her cheek and made her turn back to the ship hull. Her face was still so beautiful. Her returned hair sat recolored on her head, so majestic.

“Ronan?”

Her voice disappeared under the roar of the engines as they moved closer to the ground. Her seatbelt snagged on her jacket, forcing her down as she saw his face for a moment. He arched his head up and kissed her before the recoil pulled her back.

She gasped with tears in her eyes as the feel of him returned. She covered her mouth and was ignored by the other female ship mates. She waited for Aleta and the twins as they started their journey into the city. Katja took in the faces of the city, so many different features and races passed her by. Aleta looked over her shoulder to a silver spiral pyramid that had grown from the ground. The arcitecture here was far more advanced than earth was.

They followed the longer pathway to blend in with the crowd, in case of witnesses; Aleta’s words. The closer they came to the pyramid, the deeper the pit in Katja’s stomach grew. She doubted herself for a moment but it was part of the deal to join the ship.

She could not stay on Contraxia and Aleta was a woman of her word. Katja was allowed to board the ship and join the crew, learning to fend for herself as well as finding out where to find her husband. She never told them his name but he heard his name on their lips when her back was turned. The first night, she locked herself in the ship’s library with Peotrick and learned about the monster she had married. Katja found it hard to sleep a few days after that but when she looked to her baby boy, she knew she had to find Ronan.

The women stopped and with everything she knew then, she didn’t know what she was going do once she saw Ronan again. Aleta opened the heavy doors and closed them behind her crew. She pressed a button on her gloves and jammed all of the exits to keep their guest still.

“Welcome...”

His voice dropped as he caught sight of the lady Ravagers and sighed. He didn’t have the best temperment with them.

“Aleta.”

“Sir Broker. You’ve gotten old.”

“And you are certainly an adjective I cannot use without knowing you’ll shoot me again. Is there anything I can help you with today?”

“No. Only looking.”

He turned for the twins.

“No,” they answered at the same time without a look in his direction.

The Broker rolled his eyes at Katja and returned to his desk.

“If this is a shakedown, then I suggest you leave. As I remember correctly, that was Yondu’s job. Oh, my condolences.”

“Thank you and as you mention his name, there is something you can do.”

“Oh?”

“Almost seven years ago there was a manifest that was supposed to come with cargo from Terra.”

“How can I possibly remember that far back?”

“Because,” sighed Aleta as she tossed the intact manifest to his counter for him to ignore, “You signed off on living cargo.”

he huffed his breath and kept his eyes downward.

“You cannot prove it. Even if it was that cargo is far gone.”

Aleta turned her eye up and nodded to Katja. She reached forward for the Broker’s tie and jerked him forward. His head slammed against his papers and startled him. Katja pulled him up and glared him in the eye.

“I was your cargo. You took me from my home, you bastard. I almost want you to make this difficult for me.”

“Please! Don’t hurt me.”

“Where was I supposed to go?”

“Knowhere! To the Collector, he didn’t have a Terrian for his collection. When I gave him news, he didn’t even care so I let the units go! I swear!”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” flinched the twins.

“Yeah but I say we do a little window shopping while we are here.”

“Oh? W-Would you like a trinket for your ship, Miss...”

“Katja,” she smiled as she jerked a pipe from the wall, “Katja Harding.”

She swung the pipe and smashed the display nearest her.

“No! What are you doing?”

“Lemonading. Because of all of you, don’t worry Taneleer will get his too, I was taken away from the only person that really loved me.”

The pipe sailed through the air again as tiny glass shards fell to the cheering twins feet.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know!”

“I became someone’s whore, almost died of hypothermia,” she smashed his treasures as well, “forced under Taneleer’s payrole, got caught in slavery, and taken away from my husband, leaving me as a fucking single mother!”

She didn’t stop until the only things unbroken where them. She heaved and smiled, glad that some of her frustrations were gone. Her hand opened to drop the pipe in the valley of broken glass. There was no pity for the Broker’s sobs as he looked around to his destroyed shop.

“Ladies, we’re done here.”

Aleta snapped her fingers and unlocked the doors, leaving behind the Broker and hoofing it so the Nova Troops wouldn’t catch them.

He inhaled and saw her. She was a woman on a mission.

“Katja...”

She stopped at the sound of his voice.

“Ronan?”

“Don’t find me. It is not safe.”

She closed her eyes and found herself in a rock cell. In the shadows, she knew Ronan was waiting.

“That’s your problem. We’re fine so thanks for asking.”

“A visitor?”

She turned to the golden hand that passed through her. She stumbled back and landed on her back on the ship. Ronan forced the connection to weaken so that Thanos could not toy with her.

“You think that will stop me? If I don’t find them, they will perish when the universe becomes mine...”

Tagged: @808-anon @angelus80 @angryschnauzer @antyc67 @atinyfangirl @audasia25 @cerys1212 @clairelovexo @damageditem @echantedbytwh @eve1978 @hallotom @inkededucatednnerdy @itsjustelen @jennphoenix @justahopeless-dreamer @lokilockedcougar @lovehiddles4everme @marvelousmissfit @mazda098 @missdibley @mrshiddelston @mypreciousmind1 @nicole-stewart-loves-cookies @osb1anon @ourladybinxthings @peskipixi @prplprincez @quoting-shakespeare-to-ducks @roamingbadger @ririsutty @sarabeth72 @servent-alearika @sevanya @shamvictoria11 @siyoteodiara @starrynight35 @startingtoenjoylife @the-lady-mischief @tinaferraldo @tomkurbikston @vdcster @wolfsmom1

[evilrevan]

Fragmented

The good ending @christinedabae requested a long ass time ago. While it is a good ending for Reyva, there is angst and pain in this fic for obvious reasons. Can’t have a sugary sweet ending in tyranny, can we?

Light and darkness flickered in and out of existence, sweat trickling over her brows as her consciousness flowed between the two. Fragmented blurry images of her companions cuddled around, garbled words which sounded like Em and Lantry; faded with the dizzying sensations of unimaginable pain lacing her entire body, and the odd cooling sensation chasing away the feverish burning scouring every inch of her skin. Everything else came and went far too fast for her battered and bruised mind to process. From there time was nigh on impossible to discern. 

One second Reyvanna saw pinpricks of light shattering through the darkness, and then, a sea of consuming blackness swallowing up the faint rays of light. In the pitch black sea her consciousness ebbed and flowed like waves on the shore. 

Memories of being held against her will within Kyros’ domain plagued her. Thin razor sharp needles plunged through shallow, bloody tissue, vile bubbling liquid of swirling colors draining at a snail’s pace into her bloodstream as Reyvanna was forced to watch mutely, gagged and chained to the rough stone walls of her cell with not even an inch of room between her back and the scrapping brickwork. Twisted mocking words followed bouts of pain, rusted chains rattling as her body convulsed and reacted to the intensity torture. The bitter tang of copper flooded what little senses rose to the surface, floating atop the shifting mass of shadows and death, the edges tinged with the sweetness of color slithering through. 

Blurred images of figures crowded around her, her eyes finally picking out details in her broken state of being. Sound eluded her. A faint ringing in her ears drowning out any hope of deciphering if she was still within the clutches of Kyros’ minions or safe in the Court’s halls. Reyvanna didn’t hope for the latter. Choosing to succumb to the former in an effort of preventing Kyros from prying more from her bloodied broken body.

Strong and defiant. Unbreakable and resolute. 

A mantra she recited over and over in her head as her body endured starvation, chunks of flesh torn from her body, broken bones, bruised skin, and….

Darkness crept into the light once more, devouring all color and life rendering her in a state of floating… of never-ending pain mixed with horrors, she’d rather forget.

Beneath a wall of nothing, Reyvanna could hear the splattering of blood hitting the ground. A pool of crimson flickered behind her eyes- scarred broken legs dangling just above the pool. Limp and unresponsive. 

Blood-curdling screams filled the emptiness of perpetual silence. Warped and hollow they ceased to die off, the sharp earth shattering shrill tone ringing within her skull like a migraine, rocking the world as chasms split her skull asunder. Fire swept the back of her throat. A scratching dryness overtaking her senses as the screams continued. Reyvanna wasn’t sure if they were hers. 

Swallowing back the urge to cry out in pain as the fire began melting the worn parched tissue inside her throat, she remained strong. For two months they didn’t break her. Merely skin and bones shattered and bled. Her mind? It stayed intact. For as long as she could bear the pain. They wouldn’t be the ones to break her. To hear her screams of agony. To witness her beg and plead for the pain to cease, to savor the feeling of flesh and bone mending instead of running red with fresh blood and splintered bones breaking through the skin.

At the edge of the abyss, Reyvanna felt things prod and poke at her bruised and aching flesh. Unlike previous, instances, they didn’t maim her body. They were gentle and brief. A reprieve from the swirling vortex of blood, screams, and unending memories laced with the sweetness of death. She was blind and deaf to the real world for the longest time. Even the briefest glimpse of color was pried from her vision, darkness encapsulating all of what linked her to the outside world. It was maddening. Terrifying. But she endured. Letting the frigid blanket of darkness wash over dark, slick, and inflamed skin. 

A jumble of voices cowed withing her skull. Joining the chorus of unidentifiable cries of pain and anguish. Some voices were soft. Reyvanna strained to hear them above the din of fury and vulgarity lacing the more vocal voices in her head. 

“She still alive?” 

The choir of voices began to dwindle until only a few were left. Quiet and patient. Heinous and vile. 

“She’s still breathing. Lost her wrist and still alive. How far you think the Savage can go until she loses her mind?”

“We’ll find out when the bitch wakes up. Still got the rest of her left arm attached. Need to remedy that.”

As their voices faded into the cold abyss Reyvanna felt the hellish pain of someone slamming her wrist against the cold stone. Nails digging into her oaken tinged skin until thin rivets of blood came trickling down from the tears in the skin. Sharp teeth clenched the wad of foul smelling fabric shoved inside her mouth- mentally preparing for what was to come.

In the dimly lit prison, there was a glint of metal, a jagged rusted blade drawn in plain sight. The wielder pressed the dull blade just below the wrist, the blade sinking into the flesh at an agonizing pace. With the edge dull it took more effort to saw through flesh and bone purposely letting the sharp unimaginable searing pain ricochet throughout her entire body for as long as possible. Bloodied fingers curled up against her pain in sheer torment, shaking and tearing into the skin like the blade still sawing away at part of her body. Quickly she lost the ability to feel… anything. Even her fingers. Bloodloss mixed with shock and the horrid sight of flesh and bone splattering against the ground below drew her into the darkness.

There the pain stopped. For a time. When she awoke it was to the stinging of a metal gauntlet crashing against the side of her face, a woman and a man shouting at her to wake up. From the wrist, they moved to her elbow. Sawing off anything below the joint as they had with her wrist. She blackened out then too. The shock proving too much for anyone to handle. Least of all herself. When they slapped her awake again they sawed halfway up her arm…

“How shall I make you suffer in the sweetest way? Mangle your body until even he can’t recognize you? Tear out every single cursed tooth in your rebellious mouth? Sever your tongue so you can’t speak again? Perhaps all three?”

”It seems only fair I break his toy, as you broke mine.” 

Nails raked across the underside of Reyvanna’s chin, a chill running along her spine as the voice continued to speak. Sweetly whispering in her ear of things to come…. of what would happen to her and Tunon.

“You are a false empress. A festering blight on all of Terratus in need of removal- diced and burned until there is nothing left to infect my world.”

“I wonder just how much he can feel after centuries of being devoid of humanity. Will he crumble when I present your shattered body to him, barely breathing as you struggle to cling to life for a few more precious minutes you can squeeze out?

 Would the puppet try and strike me? Will he submit? Or will he simply crack under what he can’t comprehend?”

“I guess we’ll find out together, false empress.”

Everything came rushing in like a dam bursting at the seams. Colors chased away the darkness- lungs heaving as fresh air filled them, inflating the organs to their fullest inside her chest. Breathing hurt. It was like a fire licked the insides of her throat, burning away the flesh as she struggled to control her own breathing.

Wildly wide eyes flickered side to side, up and down, and diagonally. Bright colors such as gold and red were muted in the dim light- a sole candle lit beside where she lay.

Then the pain came crashing. Everything ached. Everything itched. Some places Reyvanna couldn’t even feel in the midst of scathing pain scouring her body. Faint hints of blood remained on her tongue. Old blood. But there none the less. Slowly scents wafted in her nostrils. Pungent herbs and blood mixing in the air like a bad dream. It smelled different than when she’d wake. Blood, the metallic scent of iron, rotting flesh, and feces frequently greeted her senses.

Here it smelled clean. Fresher. 

Despite the hints of color bleeding into her eyes, painting a dark blurry image of objects such as chairs, bookshelves, and a single nightstand; there was little evidence to suggest she was free. Focusing on steadying her breathing Reyvanna felt something wrong with her chest. As if something had wrapped itself around the skin- compressing and soaking up beads of sweat tinged with the faint scent of blood. Half lidded eyes flicked to her torso spying a swath of white bandages dyed a multitude of colors ranging from crimson to a ghastly yellow-green color. The latter could be anything. An herbal poultice. A vile festering infection stewing in and around open wounds yet untreated.

Mentally preparing for the onslaught of pain Reyvanna tried to rise from the bed; creaks and groans echoed inside the eerily quiet room as the bed vocally protested against the shifting weight placed upon it.

Horrid pain shot up her spine. Flames of heat and what felt like being stabbed over and over again throughout her body, cascaded rapidly over her earthen skin, seeping deep into her very being until her very insides screamed from what felt like a thousand daggers stabbing into her abdomen repeatedly. She could barely breathe as her breath came out in ragged, hurried gasps.

Everything hurt. From the skin on her scalp all the way down to her toes- everything screamed out in bloody murder.

Above the chorus of blood, sweat, and physical strain something creaked. Something which wasn’t the bed’s doing.

Warily Reyvanna mentally kept track of what sounded like footsteps growing closer, the source of the noise emanating from whatever creaked and groaned from the corner of the room.

One. Two. Three. Fou- 

The noises grew closer with each beat of her heart. On principle, Reyvanna refused to look towards the source of the noise. Instead, every muscle, whether it screamed or bursting into flames, tensed. The pain was expected after two months of torture. The instinct to survive and bear the brunt of Kyros’ insidious machinations blocked most of the pain. It manifested when she was held captive by the Disfavored and it continued to hold fast even now. 

Breaking apart was never an option. No matter what Kyros threw at her. 

“You.. are awake.” Reyvanna froze in place, her dim eyes wide with shock and skepticism. Part of her yearned to turn her head to the left, to solidify the notion he was here with her. And not some ploy of Kyros. Something curled up within her throat, a lump filled with hope and joy. Reyanna swallowed it. Buried the feelings deep within as it left a swath of molten metal and ash trickling alongside the discomfort inhibiting her will to answer. 

Reason whispered she was fine. Safe. Survival dictated she should be wary of everything. That this place wasn’t safe. The two side warred inside the confines of her skull. Both providing valid arguments as the footsteps grew louder. 

“Empress?” Tunon’s baritone voice bounced off the walls, concern leaking from the singular word.

If this was some magical spell conjured by Kyros’ hand, she at least got his voice right. The way his emotions slid into his words ever so slightly. Teetering between propriety and casual speech when it came to her. 

The young archon didn’t respond. Listly listing to the sounds emanating all around her instead. She needed to know if this real. To know her heart wouldn’t fall to pieces if the spark of hope roared like a wildfire only to have it extinguished within the palm of Kyros’ metal palm. 

The sound of fabric rustling and the floorboards creaking drew her eye- a blur of black and red settled by her bedside- a white mask and a pair of familiar simply glowing gray eyes stared straight at her. Their stormy color made it impossible to know what the man behind the mask felt, kneeling next to her, a single gloved hand clenched around his gilded staff. Even in her weakness, she could see the rough chafing fabric crafted into the robes Tunon always wore. unyielding and unpleasant. He wore them to remind himself of his position. Of the struggle.

He didn’t deserve comfort.

Cut lips bruised black and blue pressed together. Words crawling from the depths of her stomach, where the lump resided, to the very tip of her tongue. The desire to reach out, to touch him grew stronger with him so near. But she hesitated.

Fear plagued her mind. The image of smoke slipping through her hands as she reached out to him, to touch his mask left her reeling.

This couldn’t be real.

The glove wrapped around his gavel, his staff, strained the material as he tightened his hold on it. As if fighting something unseen. “Reyvanna.” Tunon never shortened her name like others did, rarely used it even in private, only letting it slip when things grew serious. Like when she ordered him to stay as she headed off to fight Kyros...

Gray eyes shifted. Swirling in the eye sockets as they churned like the winds in a hurricane. So many things flashed within. A dizzying madness of emotions her brain couldn’t process. 

All at once Reyvanna could feel her desire to defend herself rise. Anger bubbling to the surface like the foam building on the ocean’s churning waves in a storm. Anger numbed the pain. Kept her sane. Kept her alive.

Sharpened teeth flashed behind the torment; lashing out to protect herself from being mentally ruined. “No! You are not real!” She hissed like some kind of wild animal. Her voice rising as allowed denial to run ramped. Fury swept across her sickly ashen skin, drowning out the smell of herbs and blood mingling together. Faint scents of Ceder and pine crept into the world. But she ignored it.

“Rey-” 

She cut him off before he could continue. “Quiet! I don’t want to hear anymore! I will not play your games, Kyros!” Like a cornered animal Reyvanna attempted to move from him, to flee from the bed but found herself unable. Sharp pains and the scent of iron-infused blood rendered her unable to move. This time anger didn’t save her. Merely covered up the wounds with a temporary bandage until something better could tend to them. 

Teeth dug into the flesh of her bottom lip. Something hot graced her lips. Something red. Her blood. Two months. Two agonizing months she suffered in silence. Endured the pain inflicted as if she deserved it. Never made a sound. Never gave them the satisfaction,

And now? Warmth flowed from the corners of her weary eyes. Tears. Pain. Anguish. Sorrow. 

Haggard eyes refused to look at what she considered a false image. An illusion meant to shatter her to her core. “Haven’t you had your fill yet?” Reyvanna whispered quietly, almost to the point she couldn’t even hear her own words. Yet he had. Tunon heard the way her voice trembled and cracked as if unable to bear stress any longer. Like a statue left to the elements, she was finally crumbling.

For a moment everything was quiet. Like the calm before a storm. Only, in this case, there was no storm bearing down upon her, no wildfire ready to consume all life in its path... only peace. 

Warmth touched the side of her face, gently passing over carefully placed bandages to protect and hide wounds still left open. With no strength left Reyvanna submitted as the warmth ghosted further down her face. The warmth rested upon her chin, slowly willing it to turn, along with her entire head, towards the figure still kneeling beside her still dressed in red, black, and gold. 

The first time her eyes fell upon him the mask was fixed to his face. The hood draped over the edges of the mask to conceal what laid around. No skin was shown. No discernable evidence to claim the man behind the mask was a living, breathing, human being capable of thought and feeling.

The second time there was no shield of white. The mask resting on the bed, the hood lowered and pooling around the back of his neck. Sharp narrow gray eyes stared back at her- weary and bone tired as she felt now. His high cheekbones cast shadows on his face as the singularly lit candle danced in her room. All of a sudden he didn’t look like he was in his forties. Here he looked as if he had lived centuries in strife, in war, in hell. His lips were pressed into a tight line. His entire face strained as pieces of his long dark brown hair fell over his eyes. Tunon didn’t brush them away. All he did was look at her.

It took only a moment to realize the warmth she felt upon her chin was his hand, the glove tossed aside in favor of allowing him to feel her as she wished to do to him. 

His pale skin contrasted with her dark reddish brown skin, the color of the redwood trees she used to climb when she was younger. The difference never bothered her. Never mattered.

Right here and right now, she couldn’t have been happier to see it. To feel his hand on her. To know this wasn’t some figment of her imagination or Kyros’ doing.

What was once held behind a dam burst open in a torrent of water. Unfiltered, raw, and uncontrollable. 

Tiny streams of tears became like rivers down her face. Tiny pitiful sobs erupted from within her battered body, lips mouthing ‘how’ and ‘why’ like a mantra. As if she still couldn’t believe it.

His pale fingers moved from under her chin, drifting upwards towards the streams of water cascading down her cheeks, wiping away some of the fluid with his thumb or forefinger. A small comforting gesture to soothe her where words weren’t something easily produced. 

Tired and drained Reyvanna willed herself to try and reach out to him. Her left side didn’t respond. Didn’t feel anything move when she tried. It was as if nothing was there. Confused flickered across her features, breaking apart the mixture of joy, despair, abandonment, anguish, hope, and anger eating her away from the inside. 

Only a glimpse was needed to break it. To wipe it clean and replace it with the memory of excruciating pain as the saw bit into her skin- shredding through flesh and bone at a snail’s pace in an attempt to ensure the procedure was as hellish as humanly possible.

What was once her left arm now was a small stump. The end bound in bandages and foul smelling herbs and salves to fight off infection. There was no elbow to speak of. None of the green patterns fading to black she bore in honor of her tribe. Nothing. Just ruined flesh. 

His hand pushed her face from the sight. Brought her attention to back to him as his features displayed something of remorse. Guilt. “There was more to it than what you see before you. It was heavily infected. The skin diseased and falling apart. If left it was bound to poison you...” Tunon’s voice was softer, kinder. Spoken in hushed tones as if trying to spare her the details of the unspoken. She used to have something there. But now.... nothing. With the loss of her left arm, she would no longer be able to use a bow, see the parts of her past etched on her skin in harmony, or to live out her days as she normally could.

Another thing Kyros took from her.

“How?” She questioned, not referring to her arm. Tunon regarded her for a moment, his expressions mixed. Reyvanna couldn’t decipher them even with his mask no longer hiding him from her. The ancient Archon considered the best way to respond. Parsing words together without breaking down himself.

“What do you remember?” His prodded carefully, cautiously. It almost sounded as if he was unsure. “Not... much,” Reyvanna confessed meekly, flashes and voices screaming in her head of events long past echoed in the silence which followed. In them, she saw him kneeling in the grass. His head bowed and his gavel firmly planted in the dirt submissively. Something cold and hard was clamped around her neck and her mouth stuffed with something repulsive. Blood and screams came after. 

A warped body of red fabric and metal laid in a pool of reddish-black blood. Kyros.

Swollen eyes widened in astonishment and shock. Slowly they shifted to match the look of terror mixed with fury glossing over her features. “Tunon you-.” She began, struggling to process the sudden rush of sensory, auditory, and visual overload washing over her. 

“I told you to stay.”

The Adjudicator’s face hardened. Resembling the mask of Judgement as if it were molded from his face alone. “I did as you ordered, Empress.” There was an icy tinge to his words. His voice resembling that of the court as he pronounced those who sought him out as innocent or guilty. Power leaked within, carried it through the spacious audience hall, through the doors of the court, and out into the streets. 

And just as it came- the edges began to soften. “You died, Reyvanna. Thrice.” Suddenly the young archon couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Four words. Four words uttered from his lips, his voice cracking and crumbling to dust as they came tumbling out shattered her. 

His hand upon her face trembled lightly. “Your heart stopped the moment you entered the court after the confrontation with Kyros. You suffered massive blood loss, several broken bones, lacerations, your left arm cut off, and a raging infection coursing through your bloodstream.” Again his facial features shifted into something else, something foreign to her as Tunon struggled with emotions he hadn’t had to deal with in the past. And thanks to her, his control was being tested. 

A fire lit up in his eyes, faint but growing stronger as the seconds ticked by. “The Sage suggested something. The use lightening to restart your heart. It worked. For a time. Over the past three weeks, you died three times.” Her head spun. 

But it didn’t end there. Tunon continued to speak, battling with his emotions as he tried to remain composed- and failing. “You-” His hand fell from her face as he tried to place his staff against a nearby wall. Reyvanna understood what he was trying to do. Ground himself.

With her left arm nothing but a stump, she reached out to him- pushing her body to it’s limits as she sat up to touch his face with her right hand. With him being so tall, even kneeling down, it proved difficult. There were mild protests n his behalf. Every single one of them quickly silenced when her dull sickly hand caressed his face running her fingers along his angular jaw, up over his cheekbones, and then sliding back down to the right side of his face. There it rested, soaking in the warmth and feel of his skin against her’s. With her fingers so badly injured, his skin felt soft in comparison. And she savored it. Drowned in it.

Later they would need to talk. When she was feeling better... when her wounds healed and she could walk on her own. But now she wanted to comfort him. For she wasn’t the only one wounded by the turn of events. Watching her die several times.... unable to do anything. 

A simple tug was all that was needed to bring him closer to her, leaning over her bed as she dragged lightly pulled his face towards her, pressing her lips gently onto his starving for more than just a simple touch. Tunon didn’t question it. Didn’t argue she needed rest rather than engage in something like this.

He sought it out as eagerly as she did. Two months apart. Two months of hell on both sides. They both needed confirmation this was real. 

What happens afterward is left to the wind. Smothered by the desire to ensure they both breathed the same air as one another. 

Reyvanna is the one who pulls away from him. Her mouth not even and inch from his as she stares as him warmly, “I am not going anywhere, my Imperator.” This was a promise she intended to keep this time. Gray eyes continued to gaze at her, conflicted yet softer. Instead of replying he initiated the kiss, his ungloved hand running through her damp, unruly, and curly dark brown hair.