#I’m finally finishing it after it got muddied with some painful memories

[puns-and-podcasts]

I’m literally the worst tma listener because I’m like okay sure jonmartin cute but like, I don’t want to make jon better I want to make him worse and I think elias should get to do it

[popopretty]

Storm Bringer Spoilers (9)

I finally finished the translation of the last part in the epilogue where it is explained why Verlaine was still alive and how he became after that. Verlaine and Rimbaud’s relationship is just so sad :( 

Please feel free to re-translate. Just be aware that I don’t speak English or Japanese as my native language so I may make a few mistakes here and there. Also, some meanings might be lost in indirect translation. 

...

Going back in time.

The Demonic Beast Guivre appeared in the wood. Adam blew himself up. Chuuya opened the “gate” and defeated Guivre.

Four minutes and thirty seconds after that.

The place was the site of the collapsed highway overpass. Crushed foundation materials, concrete, wires, steel frames, cylindrical forms and such were scattered and piled up like dead bodies.

On the top of that place, Verlaine was in the progress of vanishing.

He couldn’t bend the tips of his fingers. His breathing was shallow. His vision was so dark and hazy that he couldn’t even see the stars. Verlaine is nothing more than a sealed string of codes. When the singularity lifeform that acted as his main body disappeared, his heart was slowly stopping due to the life-sustaining energy being depleted.

Verlaine’s thoughts were just as shallow and slow as his breath. Even on the verge of being engulfed into the hollow of death, his heart didn’t flinch one bit, nor did it seek for anything.

So this is death, Verlaine thought in his disrupted consciousness. It is not such a big deal as I thought. No groaning in pain, no crying of regrets, no distraught with fear either. It is flat and thoroughly empty. In the first place, my life is not a life that has anything to regret at this point. It is a life that should not have been born from the beginning. I didn’t live in a way as to regret anything either.

It’s just that, I caused troubles to so many people. The French government, my assassination targets, Port Mafia, brother. In the end, I didn’t get anything, even with all of that. That only is like a stain my life’s trail, that I regret a little.

Well, whatever. As you can see, I will die soon so forgive me.

His fingers grew colder and eventually he didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

His heartbeat weakened. And after a brief spasm...

It stopped.

His heart.

A few tens of seconds passed.

Verlaine realized that he was still breathing. At the edge of his field of vision, he saw something red. He turned his eyes to that. 

A crimson red cube was passing through his chest and surrounding his heart. That thing was making his heart move.

What the hell is this? Verlaine was confused. It was not because he did not know what the crimson cube was. He was confused because that was something he knew so well.

Why is it here?

“This is the first time I saw you in such a terrible state.”

How nostalgic was that voice.

Verlaine couldn’t believe his own ears. And when the person entered his sight, he started doubting his eyes too.

“No, no...”, Verlaine spoke in a whispering voice. “This can’t be happening. You can’t possibly appear here.”

“Exactly”, the person nodded. “However, showing up in the most unlikely places, at the most unlikely times, isn’t that what a spy is?”

That was Arthur Rimbaud.

A fuzzy outer jacket. A thick scarf around his neck. A pair of earmuffs made from rabbit hair on his head. Long, black hair and somewhat gloomy eyes.

He was the person who saved Verlaine from the lab, and his partner. And the person Verlaine betrayed.

The subspace created by the crimson cube was the sign of Rimbaud’s skill. All substances inside it can be manipulated at Rimbaud’s will.

“Paul, what have you learnt in the world of spies?” Rimbaud sounded surprised as he asked.

“That if you don’t throw away your feelings, you won’t be able to complete the missions, it taught me that much. But what are missions? And what are feelings? Is that to vent out all of my hatred towards human? Or is that to get a little brother? I rushed into this without knowing clearly which one was the mission, and this is the result. If I hadn’t told brother the way to stop Guivre, I would have been able to kill off all those hateful humans.”

“Ahh... I see, you are Rimbaud’s hallucination.” Verlaine said as if he was ridiculing himself. “You are the illusion that I see on the verge of death, the death reaper my guilts are showing me. Otherwise, there is no way Rimbaud who died one year ago would appear here.”

“I’m not a hallucination, neither a reaper. I am a ghost.” Rimbaud shook his head. “I have been waiting for you, in this country.”

Verlaine stared at the other silently, as if he was trying to understand what that existence over there actually was.

“No way, there can be no ghosts.” Verlaine finally shook his head. “Not because it’s unscientific. If you were a ghost and not an illusion, you would not be saving me like this. You would definitely curse me to death.”

“Why?”

“I betrayed you, and tried to kill you.” His cold voice echoed through the night.

Rimbaud didn’t say anything, he looked back at the collapsed Verlaine with calm eyes.

“What’s with those eyes? Be mad at me more, resent me more, punch me, kick me, strangle me, Rimbaud!”, Verlaine screamed, still lying on the ground. “I shot you from the back. That’s why that explosion happened. You were caught up in it and lost your memories, then died in this foreign country not even knowing who you were. If you are a ghost, then there is only one reason that you became one. That’s your grudge towards me, isn’t that right, Rimbaud!”

“It’s the opposite.”, Rimbaud shook his head. “I waited for you because... I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize? For what?” Verlaine frowned, not getting what he just heard.

“I wanted to help you. And I thought that I was helping.” Rimbaud leaned forward, holding his hand over Verlaine’s chest. “But what I actually gave you, was nothing more than the one-sided sympathy of a man who pretended that he understood. I can’t allow myself to just apologize. I have always been thinking about what I could give. And I finally got the answer on the verge of death. This is it.”

Under Rimbaud’s palm, the space cube grew bigger.

The thing that was at Verlaine’s chest earlier started to expand as if it wanted to shallow his whole body. Then it became huge enough to shallow both Verlaine and Rimbaud inside. That was the subspace created by Rimbaud’s skill. Inside it, Rimbaud is capable of doing anything. Except for bringing the dead back to life.

That exception seemed to be happening.

Verlaine noticed his own fingers twitching. They bent. It wasn’t an illusion. His eyes were also moving. His muddy vision gradually became clear.

“This is...”

Verlaine moved his arm. He twisted and raised his upper body up. He looked at his palm, at the back of his hand, squeezed it, then released it again. He felt his fingers being warmed up by the blood flowing in.

He tried to ask what was happening so he looked at Rimbaud who was there.

Rimbaud was not there.

He collapsed.

By Verlaine’s side.

“What is this?”, Verlaine asked in shock. “I see, you... you used your skill on yourself?”

“A method that I could use only once in life.” Rimbaud said with a faint smile on his face. “But it worked well.”

<The skill to turn humans into skills>

That was Arthur Rimbaud’s skill.

Transforming dead humans into a skilled lifeform, and using them freely inside the crimson subspace. The person who is turned will have the memories and physical capabilities of their past lives, they can even use skills. It is a skill worthy of a spy that is considered the most elite in Europe, the heresy of the heresies. 

Rimbaud used that skill on himself.

“It’s nothing to worry about. I am already dead.” Rimbaud said weakly. “What is left here is just information. But even if it is like that, I feel good. Because I could leave this to you.”

Rimbaud’s body started to glow in red. The way it glowed was familiar to Verlaine.

A redshift. (*TN: A term referring to an increase in the wavelength, and corresponding decrease in the frequency and photon energy. In astronomy, it happened when an object is moving away from us. Good luck Googling.) 

“Wait!” Verlaine who realized what was going on, reached out to the collapsed Rimbaud.

“Wait, Rimbaud. Don’t disappear!”

“Because you didn’t like my birthday present.” Rimbaud laughed apologetically.

“Just take this as a birthday present instead. Happy Birthday. I am happy you were born into this life.”

After that, the subspace contracted sharply, sucked into Verlaine’s heart and disappeared.

All that remained was the debris, and Verlaine, and the cool breeze of the night.

Verlaine walked two, three steps with the stunned look on his face. He looked around then sat down on the debris.

“Ha...hahaha.” He looked down and let out a dry laugh.

“Hey Rimbaud, you waited one year for me just to do this? For something like this?”

Verlaine knew, what Rimbaud had done.

To save him, Rimbaud had turned himself into a self-contradictory typed singularity.

Rimbaud, who had turned himself into a skill, used that skill again on his own self who was born as a result of that. Then he continued to apply that skill on his new self that was born. And by repeating this progress, he created a self-contradictory typed singularity. Then he gave that singularity to Verlaine, in place of the Demonic Beast Guivre.

Verlaine tried to stand up but he didn’t have enough strength and dropped his knees on the debris. He was weak. Perhaps, the singularity that Rimbaud created did not have an infinity output like the unlimited energy that the usual self-contradictory typed singularity emits. He could no longer use his inexhaustible gravitational skill like he did before.

But Verlaine didn’t find it particularly regrettable. 

Because he was regretting the thing that he just lost that very moment more.

“Why, Rimbaud?” Verlaine looked up to the sky. “Why did you smile at the end? I betrayed you, and you died because of that, you know?”

He knew the answer. He just didn’t want to understand.

Rimbaud, the man who freed him from Faunus and gave him the freedom to live.

Rimbaud, the man who trained him and raised him into a spy, the person who got through all the dangerous missions with him.

Rimbaud, the man who shyly handed him his birthday present.

“Why did you smile?” Verlaine spoke with a trembling voice. “If you turn yourself into a skill, you are no longer human. You will be nothing more than a piece of surface information with a human’s memories and personalities. You knew that for sure. Still why did you wait for me? Why did you have to go that far for someone like me, when you didn’t even know if I would come or not?”

Verlaine finally came to his senses.

The reason why he let Chuuya know how to defeat the Demonic Beast Guivre at that time.

He hated humans. He thought that it would be okay if everyone died. Yet, he gave out the hint to destroy Guivre. That was because he didn’t think that everyone should die, equally. 

There was only one exception.

One person worthy of affirming human beings.

“Sorry, Rimbaud.” Verlaine whispered behind his clenched teeth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to your friendship. I’m sorry I didn’t thank you when I received the birthday present. I am finally grieving the fact that you are not here anymore now...”

Verlaine said so with his trembling voice, as he sat still and looked up to the sky with his eyes closed.

He remained there for a long, long time, looking at the night sky.

...

--------------------------------------------------------------

...

Time pours on everything equally.

Verlaine didn’t die. After surviving with the life he got from Rimbaud, he was confined in Port Mafia’s underground shelter. That was what Verlaine wished for. There was already no place for Verlaine in the outside world. He had lost most of his gravitational skill and the only place he could escape the long and big hands of Europe was the hideout deep underground.

Also, he had no interests in the outside world. There wasn’t anyone he wanted to kill, nor anyone he wanted to meet. Apart from Rimbaud. 

And Rimbaud was no longer there.

At first, he just sat in the basement and spent all his time reading and writing poems. When he became bored with that, he started doing what Rimbaud used to do. Training the younger generation.

He hammered his assassination skills and knowledge into the Mafia’s elites in an underground training space. Gin, Izumi Kyouka, and many more.

Those mafias under his discipline all became top-class assassins in a short period of  time.

Verlaine didn’t reveal his feelings to anyone. He never told his apprentices nor the Boss the reason why he kept desiring that crippling life underground. 

When he was not training his apprentices, he just sat on his wicker chair, waiting for something. He never told anyone what he was waiting for. If he was asked persistently, he would just say “for the storm”. No-one knew what that storm was supposed to mean.

Six years later, Verlaine now has become an indispensable central figure in the Mafia, and risen to the position of one of Mafia’s five executives.

He is still sitting on his wicker chair, waiting for his storm even today.

...

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 22: Reservoir House Call

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, body horror

Summary: Moraue needs Heisenberg’s help.

Feedback appreciated, 18+

Movement tripped the alarms, something deep in the factory stirred the sensors. Heisenberg and Juniper entered the control room. He sat in the chair, looking over the cameras.

“What the fuck it that?!” Juniper pointed to one of the screens. Heisenberg turned to look where her finger led.

Down on the lowest reaches of the factory, where water from the reservoir flowed through the factory a large shape lumbered out.

It was a mass of fat and eyes, pulling free of the water with multiple legs.

“Aw Christ…” Heisenberg sat back in his chair rubbing the bridge of his nose, “it’s Moreau.”

 

“That’s Moreau??” Juniper said in disbelief.

By the time they made it down to the lowest level, Moreau had changed back into his more humanoid form, coughing near the edge of the waterway.

“H-Hello Juniper.” The man croaked. Seeing him now, without his usual coverings was a sight to behold. His back was covered with bulbous, pulsing growths. Damn, some looked to be monstrous eyes. A vestigial aquatic tail poked out from the mass, moving on its own accord. It looked painful, forcing the man into a hunchback.

“H-Hello.” Juniper managed.

“Yea Yea, fish.” Heisenberg stomped up, “What do you want, I’m busy.”

Moreau seemed to worry his hands, glancing down, “Brother…I…I need your help.”

“I fucking know that, what is it?” Heisenberg interjected, annoyed.

His tone made the other flinch a bit, “My television…i-it broke. I can’t f-fix it.”

Heisenberg signed, thinking over the situation. “I’ll come fix it.” He finally spoke.

Moreau’s face lit up with hope, shuffling his feet a bit. He turned towards Juniper, “You’ll come too?”

“Sure.” She nodded tentatively, hearing Heisenberg groan behind her.

“I can take you over!” The man gestured to the water excitedly.

Juniper felt a shiver, remembering what emerged from the water, until Heisenberg cut in again. “Thanks but…uh…fuck that.” He waved his hand, “Well take our own way.”

Slightly dejected, Moraue nodded, “I’ll meet you there.”

“Mhm.” Heisenberg shrugged tightly. Before anyone would speak again the fish man turned and jumped back into the waterway.

~

“Is that a purse?” Juniper asked amused. They walked towards the Reservoir, the ground muddy from the melted snow.

“It’s a tool bag.” Heisenberg answered through gritted teeth. He pulled the bag closer, it was letter and hung around his shoulder at hip level.

“It looks like a purse.” Juniper snickered, earning a growl of annoyance from Heisenberg.

As they drew nearer, past the town, the ground grew more sodden. The air slowly began to gain a certain smell, like the rotting of waterlogged plants. Juniper wrinkled her nose.

They walked through a narrow passage between a cliff face, Heisenberg holding back a bramble patch for Juniper to safely squeeze through.

She could see the windmills now, old and groaning as they slowly turned. Most of the land surrounding them had long since been lost to the rising water. The roofs of houses and other debris could be seen floating on top of the murky water.

“This is it.” Heisenberg announced, “The beautiful Reservoir, perfect place to cool off in the summertime. Just watch out for the fish!” His voice mimicked an old radio announcer as he split his face into a cheeky smile.

Juniper brushed him away, walking towards the edge to look into the swirling water.

“Be careful, buttercup.” Heisenberg came up behind her, “Won’t be able to fish you out if you sink in that.”

She felt a little shiver run down her spine.

She stepped away from the water, “So where does Moreau live?”

Heisenberg gestured for her to follow, easing his tool bag more comfortably on his shoulder. They entered the closest of the windmills. The old wooden mechanism slowly turned and groaned as they took stairs deeper into the underground. They came to a lift, resembling ones in the factory, but this one was wooden.

They rode it down into what looked to be an old mine. Juniper’s eyes caught the glittering flecks of crystals embedded into the rocky ceiling.

Going deeper still, with the far off shuffling of Lycans in abandoned mining shafts, they finally came to a metal door.

It bore the crest of Miranda.

“Don’t touch anything.” Heisenberg warned, “I don’t want you getting any diseases.”

Before Juniper could scold him he knocked at the door.

They heard mumbling and the scraping of feet across the wooden floors before the door opened. Moreau was a mixture of joy and apprehension, greeting them inside.

His ‘house’ was one of the mine shafts that had been converted into a living space. There were wooden floors and walls, and some furniture about. It was definitely sparse, save for some shelves with old books and storage containers.

Everything looked to be heavily damaged by water and the goo that Moraue would produce, not to mention the off colored stains that Juniper didn’t want to ask about.

It smelled about as one would expect, given the circumstances.

“I’m sorry…about the mess.” Moraue picked up a pile of old magazines, their covers warped and faded.

“It’s alright.” Juniper tried to sooth.

“So where is the tv?” Heisenberg asked with disgruntlement.

“Oh!” The twisted man exclaimed, “It’s right over here.” He padded around a corner into another small room. An old television set was staked on a crate, some soft things and boxes of films close by. This room looked to be the space he spent most of his time.

“Thank you, Heis-Heisenberg.” Moraue stammered.

“Yea, yea.” Heisenberg strode forward, kneeling down behind the machine. He placed the bag of tools beside him, pulling out a screwdriver.

Juniper wandered back to the entertainment room, Moreau curiously following her.

Heisenberg, busy with his task, took no mind of them. He wanted to finish this job as quickly as possible.

Getting all the screws loose he was able to free the back panel. It came away with an odd sucking sound, goo oozing out with it. The slimy substance hit Heisenberg’s boots as the television gave small sparks.

“Fucking hell!” Heisenberg grimaced at his boots, shaking the panel free of the muck.

“The TV is full of your green shit slime!” Heisenberg yelled into the next room. He heard more apologies from the room over. Grumbling, he began to clean out the inside of the box.

Juniper walked along the wall, looking at various  things that were hung alone it. Most of it was old gushing memorabilia but a few worn picture frames peaked her interest.

One photo in particular stood out. It was faded, the edges being ate up with mold. But she could still make out a man, stocky with jet black hair. He stood proudly in front of a clinic. She squinted her eyes to read the sign in the photo: Moreau’s Clinic.

“Sal?” Juniper turned, pointing to the photo, “Is this you?”

Moreau came closer, looking to where her finger led. His wide mouth parted in a smile as he spoke, “Oh yes!”

“Were you a doctor?” Juniper turned back towards the photo. Looking now she could see the shadows of his features hidden away under all the twisted flesh.

He nodded, “Yes, I took over the clinic. It was my Father’s. I helped people…before…before all..”

His voice trailed off, but Juniper understood.

He shook his head a bit, his smile returning, “But I help Mother Miranda now! I try to make her proud of me.”

Juniper gave him a small smile, knowing that nothing she said would sway his devotion.

“Heisenberg said you were sick.” Moraue looked up at her, his good eye full of worry.

Feeling her stomach she answered, “I went through a lot recently, but I’m feeling much better now.”

“Mother’s gifts hurt sometimes.” He tried to sooth, “But it’s worth it, she wants us to be strong.”

She tried to nod, her gut turning a bit at the memories.

“You are Heisenberg’s helper?”Moreau tried to change the subject.

Heisenberg’s voice sounded from the other room, “She’s my wife!” He corrected.

Moreau gave a small ‘oh’. Juniper’s cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush.

“I’m trying to teach him some manners.” She whispered mischievously, earning a warbling chuckle from Moreau.

“I heard that!” Heisenberg yelled again making the two snicker harder.

~

It was a good few hours before Heisenberg was able to get the inside of the machine clean and in working order once more. He had to use his powers with electricity to rewire some parts, replacing one of the tube bulbs and showering it with a plethora of curses for good measure during the whole ordeal.

Juniper kept Moraue occupied and out of Heisenberg’s hair. He had convinced her to look at his collection of finishing lures. Given his simple speech patterns and twisted visage one would think him very dim; but he was surprisingly intelligent and talkative with certain topics. Fishing was one of those topics, Juniper discovered.

The sound of boots tore them from their conversations, Moraue closing the old wooden tackle box to look up.

“Well I got it working again…but damn your slime mess is really fucking it up.” Heisenberg announced, holding his tool bag.

Moreau took Juniper’s hand excitedly, “Would you want to see one of my movies?”

“No, no.” Heisenberg interjected.

“One movie?” Juniper looked at him with big puppy eyes, “Just to make sure it’s working properly.”

The two looked at Heisenberg expectantly. After a long moment Heisenberg pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed, “Jesus fuck…Fine!”

As Moreau excitedly went through his box of films Heisenberg pressed, “Only one.”

“Thank you.” Juniper whispered, hugging Heisenberg softly.

Rolling his eyes, Heisenberg hisses, “I don’t know why you humor him.”

“Because it’s a nice thing to do.” Juniper snapped under her breath, “Don’t be so mean.”

When he didn’t speak she gave a little huff, wandering closer to the crouched Moreau.

The man was sifting carefully though the films, mumbling things to himself.

Juniper made a sound of surprise pointing into the box, “You have ‘The Secret Garden’?”

Moreau nodded, pulling that film free. It was the 1949 version, in black and white.

“I used to love that book.” Juniper spoke excitedly, “Can we watch that one?”

Moreau, just overjoyed to have company, instantly agreed.

Heisenberg leaned against the far wall, watching them set up the television. Moreau apologized profusely for not having proper seating, while Juniper shrugged and sat on the floor.

He smiled as the two became quiet when the movie started, walking quietly up to sit besides Juniper. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer as he settled in.

The movie wasn’t his cup of tea, liking westerns or thrillers more himself, but the quiet was nice. Even if the place was damp and smelled.

[seehowsupplethespineis]

When the Wind Roars

(I can’t believe I finally finished this!!! This story was originally intended to be much shorter, but...obviously I got a bit carried away. Expect lots of angst. There’s some fluff, too, but mostly ANGST.)

(Plot Summary: In the past, Starscream and Skyfire made quite the team, but even then, that partnership was put to the test. In the present, Starscream and Skyfire do battle, as Starscream tries to rid himself of their shared memories once and for all.)

(Warnings: violence, guns, injury, a bit of disturbing imagery, death mention, lots of vengeful thoughts)

Present

The wind roared deafeningly at the peak of the mountain. It had only picked up in intensity in the few cycles they’d been stationed here, bringing with it a relentless rain that blanketed the world in hues of grey. Starscream scowled as he hastened to catch a stray bit of metal before it went tumbling off the mountainside, his feet nearly slipping out from under him in the sea of mud. He hated this weather. It was cold and wet and impossible to work in.

Of course, Starscream had faced far worse weather than this, but that was of little comfort.

Rumble was also fed up. After face planting in the mud for the fourth time, the minicon threw down his supply of metal beams with a cry of outrage.

“This is stupid!” he exclaimed, “How does Megatron expect us to build anything up here?!”

Starscream scowled at him, “I did not say you could stop working!”

Rumble’s small fists balled up at his sides, “What are you gonna do about it?”

Starscream didn’t like to be challenged. Without hesitation, he chucked the piece of metal he’d been holding at Rumble, who toppled over once more.

“I said work!” The other Decepticons hastened to comply as Rumble crawled out from under the metal, studiously avoiding Starscream’s withering glare.

In all honesty, Starscream was just as furious as Rumble, though his frustration was more because he was forced to work up here on this Primusforsaken mountain; he should be leading an attack on the Autobots, not laboring in the mud. This was far beneath him.

Despite his demand that everyone keep working, Starscream paused to look up at the sky. It was grey and murky but a ray of light shone through, reaching only so far as to give a hint of warmth.

He was reminded of another planet he’d visited millions of years ago. It was just as wet and windy as this one; just as meddlesome. He hadn’t been alone then, either, nor was he alone when he’d first visited this accursed planet.

A few rain drops splattered on his optics and Starscream violently wiped them away, an irritated snarl escaping him.

“Starscream!” It was Thundercracker.

“What now?!”

“Autobots!”

At first, Starscream didn’t believe him. There was no road up to this mountain. The wheel-bound Autobots would be unable to make it up here; even by foot, the journey was too perilous. The only way up was through flight.

Starscream’s optics widened. He lowered his servos from his face to find the mountainside cast in shadow. His gaze flicked upward.

Above him, in a halo of light, hovered a large, white jet.

Starscream felt sudden heat swell within him despite the cold.

“Shoot him out of the sky!!!”

A distant planet, millions of years ago...

“This is very likely a bad idea.”

“You say that about everything.”

“No, I only say that when a situation seems hazardous...this situation seems hazardous.”

“Honestly, Skyfire, you can be so cowardly sometimes,” Starscream transformed back to root mode as he touched down on a muddy precipice. He scowled as his feet sank into the muck but kept a chipper tone as he addressed his partner, “I can barely feel the wind!”

Skyfire set down beside him. The sudden weight of the two jets shook the cliffside, sending a few boulders tumbling over the edge. Skyfire watched their descent and frowned.

“You’ve seen the weather report, Starscream,” he said quietly, “The storm could pick up any moment now.

Starscream waved a flippant servo. Raindrops spiraled off his digits, “If it does, we can handle it! We’ve suffered through far worse, you and I.”

“Perhaps,” said Skyfire, “But nothing which hampered our ability to fly away.”

Starscream shook his head; he loved Skyfire, but sometimes he was a real pain in the afterburner. They’d been on countless exploration missions before and faced plenty of unsavory weather conditions; floods, earthquakes, they’d survived them all. What was a little storm to them?

“If you want to go, fine!” Starscream started walking, “I’ll complete this mission myself.”

He’d barely taken two steps before Skyfire was at his side, as Starscream knew he’d be. The smaller jet grinned up at him and Skyfire sighed.

“Let’s just get a lay of the land and go. We can come back for those crystal samples we’re supposed to investigate when the storm lets up.”

Starscream heaved a dramatic sigh, “That could take ages, Skyfire, and we’re on a tight schedule! We’re meant to be returning to Cybertron soon.”

Skyfire glanced away at that. Starscream narrowed his optics.

“What is it?”

Fiddling with his portable scanner, Skyfire shook his head, “It’s just...Cybertron has been so...contentious of late. Part of the reason I volunteered for this expedition was because I wanted to get away for a while.”

“I thought you volunteered because I volunteered,” Starscream said with a slight smirk.

Skyfire glanced at him and smiled, “I do have a mind of my own, you know.”

“Yes,” Starscream agreed, “And it’s smart enough to follow me.”

A laugh escaped the larger jet, “Or dumb enough.”

“Nonsense! We’re highly intelligent bots, Skyfire,” Starscream ruined the sentiment by tripping over a boulder, but Skyfire righted him before his face hit the mud. Coughing slightly to hide his embarrassment, Starscream continued,  “That’s why we work so perfectly together.”

Skyfire still kept a hold of Starscream’s arm as he considered his partner’s words. At last, he let his servo drift down to clutch Starscream’s hand.

“Interesting hypothesis.”

Starscream’s processor seemed to momentarily short out, but it came back online as Skyfire regarded him fondly with those brilliant blue eyes of his. Flustered, Starscream only stared, until eventually he managed to connect his processor back to his voice.

“Interesting fact,” he corrected, squeezing Skyfire’s hand, “That we shall prove now!”

He pointed up the mountain with his free servo. High above, the faintest gleam, as of polished metal, twinkled in the faint light.

“Those are the crystals.”

Skyfire squinted up at them and raised his scanner, “Hmm...they definitely have a high energy output. Akin to energon.”

“We need a sample,” Starscream broke away from Skyfire so he could take flight. Skyfire laid a hand on his shoulder before he could.

“Starscream, look at those clouds,” Skyfire gestured up at the - admittedly - ominous sky above them, “I would not advise flying.”

“So what, we climb?” Starscream had to shout to be heard over a sudden gust of wind.

“No, we wait until the weather becomes more favorable.”

A burst of lightning and a rumble of thunder punctuated Skyfire’s words. Starscream couldn’t deny the sudden thrill of apprehension that shot through his system, but he wasn’t about to be bested by a mere storm.

“I’m going for it!”

“Don’t!” Skyfire’s grip on his shoulder was more insistent, “The wind is picking up. You could get blown into the mountain side or crash to the ground. And those crystals are brimming with unstable energy! We shouldn’t get too-!”

“I am a scientist, Skyfire!” Starscream shook free of the other jet, “I know how to handle dangerous substances. And I know how to handle myself, thank you very much!”

Skyfire opened his mouth but whatever he said was lost to the wind.

“What?!” Starscream shouted.

“I said, we must seek shelter!”

“We’re on a cliff! Where-” Starscream’s response was cut short as a large rock tumbled down from above, forcing the smaller jet to leap out of the way. Scowling, he glanced up to where the rock had come from, and his optics widened as he saw still more crashing down.

“Move!” Skyfire yelled. As one, he and Starscream dove off the cliff and transformed back to jet mode. Instantly, Starscream felt the wind buffet his wings, threatening to splatter him against the cliff side. Okay, he conceded to himself, Maybe the weather is too much.

The rain poured down in earnest, now, blanketing Starscream’s windshield to the point where the world became a hazy, grey blur. A bolt of lightning arced down. It was far, far too close for his liking, and Starscream instinctively swerved away.

Extending his long range sensors, he sought a safe place to land below. Skyfire would be doing the same, he knew. His sensors probed the sky around him, trying to pinpoint the white jet so they could touch down together.

Something within him froze. He extended his sensors further, as far as he could. His engines faltered. The wind pressed in around him, rattling him to his very core, but he paid no heed.

In a moment’s frantic decision, Starscream transformed back to root mode and scanned the landscape with his optics.

Even as he plummeted to the ground, he called out desperately.

“SKYFIRE!”

Present

Energy bolts lit up the gloomy mountain as the Decepticons opened fire. As if sensing the sudden hostility, lightning split open the sky and a deep, resounding rumble followed soon after. Starscream’s optics were momentarily dazzled by the stunning displays surrounding him, and when they adjusted, three Autobots had leaped down from the sky to stand before him.

He recognized their leader, of course. Optimus Prime leveled a weapon at Starscream, though the jet paid little mind. Even as the Prime spoke, his voice deep and commanding, Starscream didn’t heed. Instead, he watched as the large, white jet above transformed and fell to the mountain top just behind Prime.

Something within Starscream burned as he locked gazes with Skyfire. Blazing red optics met piercing blue. They sliced through Starscream, as cold as the ice Skyfire had rested in for millions of years. Starscream didn’t recognize those eyes. He couldn’t even recall what they’d used to look like, though he remembered how they’d made him burn with a fire entirely different from the one raging within him now.

Prime shouted something. The Autobots charged. Two of them - Ironhide and Prowl - rushed to meet Thundercracker and Rumble. Prime defended himself against an emboldened Skywarp. And Skyfire, stance steady despite the shifting mud, raised his gun at Starscream.

The seething rage within him ignited and Starscream opened fire. Despite his immense size, Skyfire dodged, nearly trampling a terrified Rumble. Starscream didn’t let up, even as Skyfire took aim and forced him to launch off the ground to avoid the blast. Transforming into jet mode, he streaked through the air, null rays zeroed in on Skyfire’s bulky frame.

Skyfire fired off a few more shots, forcing Starscream to alter his course. His flight took him close to the other battling Autobots and Decepticons. Ironhide fired a few bolts at him and Starscream hurried to avoid the crossfire of his and Skyfire’s weapons. The distraction infuriated him and Starscream took a moment to fire on the red Autobot. Suitably cowed, Ironhide returned to his tussle with Rumble, leaving Starscream to focus every bit of his ire on the white mech firing on him from afar.

Their battle grew removed from that of the others. With each attack, they drew further away, further toward the edge. Starscream didn’t care. He refused to be beaten by this mountain or the wind and rain that assaulted him. He wanted Skyfire dead. That was all that mattered.

He streaked through the air. He was close now. Skyfire stood no chance. Sudden giddiness grabbed hold of Starscream as he imagined Skyfire offline at his feet. The traitor would die a traitor’s death; there would be no mercy.

But Starscream’s perceived victory was short-lived. Before he could even slow down, Skyfire dove forward, managing to come up under him. A servo closed around his wing and Starscream shrieked as Skyfire swung him into the ground. He landed painfully and it took a moment for him to recover enough to shift back to root mode. When he did, Skyfire stood over him, gun leveled at his face.

All was quiet, as if the increasing downpour had muted the world. The wind that howled so relentlessly before had petered out. The battle raging behind them was a distant nuisance, almost inconsequential. For all Starscream cared, the world consisted of only him, Skyfire, and the gun between them. The shaking gun.

Starscream’s gaze flicked to meet Skyfire’s. Those blue eyes stared back with a wavering resolve. For a moment that seemed to stretch across millions of years, neither made a move.

The wind sprang back to life, the distant battle drew nearer, and Skyfire still hadn’t fired. What are you waiting for? Starscream wanted to shout, Finish it!

But Skyfire didn’t, and this, more than anything, sent a surge of loathing through Starscream’s system. It fueled his null ray as he raised it in one deft movement.

Skyfire had no time to react. The force of the blast sent him careening back, his feet slipping in the mud, gun falling from his slack hand. There was no time for him to regain his balance.

Starscream watched him fall over the edge. He didn’t react for a few long moments after. All he could do was stare at the space Skyfire had occupied.

He’s gone, Something within Starscream’s spark shrank in on itself, I can’t see him.

His processor fixated on that one thought. I can’t see him. I can’t see him!

He stumbled forward, a desperate cry escaping him.

“SKYFIRE!!!”

Past

Not even the relentless gale could slow Starscream’s descent. He tore through the air, the wind shrieking as if in protest, his limbs flailing uselessly. He knew he needed to transform; if he didn’t, he’d be nothing but a mound of smashed metal and circuitry. As the image flashed in his mind, he couldn’t help but envision a similar corpse, this one much larger and a stark white against the dark landscape.

Starscream quashed the thought as soon as it arose. Skyfire wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. Those were two differing thoughts, Starscream knew, but his processor couldn’t help but bounce between them. He’s not dead, because if he is then...There was no conclusion that Starscream dared consider, so he focused his processor, attempting to ignore the threat of his imminent demise.

He felt his transformation cog whir to life, though the transformation was made clumsy by the unconventional circumstances. The mess of green below drew nearer, serving as an unnecessary reminder that he needed to pull up fast.

Acting purely on instinct, his engines rocketed him forward. He felt leaves skim his wings as he struggled to pull upward, making for the murky grey of the clouds above. The wind was a constant assailant that threatened to dash him into the trees or the mountainside. Lightning split open the sky over and over, closer and closer.

Was that what happened? Had Skyfire been hit by a stray lightning bolt? The concept forced Starscream to tax his engines harder than he ever had. With a burst of speed, he shot upward, letting the trees be swallowed by the mist once more. Again, he extended his sensors and cursed his lack of visibility.

“SKYFIRE!!!”

No response. Starscream knew he wasn’t thinking straight as he veered closer to the mountain, seeking any hint that Skyfire may have crashed. His wing clipped a jutting boulder and he nearly smashed into the cliff face himself as he went careening off course. He was forced to climb higher in a desperate attempt not to meet with the rocks below.

Where is he? He couldn’t think. Couldn’t see, Where is he?!

Something glittered nearby, almost like…

Metal. Starscream threw himself forward, heedless of the risk, “Skyfire!!!”

The wind pulled at his wings, trying to drag him down. The noise was cacophonous, forcing his engines to roar all the louder. He would not be bested. He was so close…

The glittering material suddenly sharpened into focus. The hope glittering just as brightly within him dimmed.

In the faint light shimmered the very reason for this accursed mission. The energy crystals. No sign of Skyfire.

Starscream’s spark sank. He was sure it would drop right out of his fuselage and shatter on the jagged rocks far below. Maybe another spark was already waiting for it.

Thunder continued to growl overhead. Lightning tore through the darkness and illuminated the entire cliff side in brilliant white. An instinctive part of Starscream knew what was coming, but there was no time to react. He could only stare as the lightning zigzagged down and struck the shimmering rocks.

The crystals exploded. Shards smashed open Starscream’s cockpit and embedded themselves in his battered frame. He may have screamed, but he couldn’t hear it. Stabbing pain coursed through his entire being. It overwhelmed him, so much so that he didn’t realize he was falling until he smashed into a jutting, sloped cliff. The impact jarred loose a faint recollection.

Those crystals are brimming with unstable energy! We shouldn’t get too-

Skyfire had warned him. He’d warned him about everything, and what had Starscream said? Honestly, Skyfire, you can be so cowardly sometimes.

He felt himself sliding slowly toward the edge. Desperately, he forced himself to transform. His cockpit grated over the rocky terrain and another dizzying bout of agony washed over him. He could hear his scream this time.

Legs dangling into nothingness, Starscream sought for something to grab onto. His servos dug into the mud, clutching at nothing but loose pebbles. The cliff was too unstable and his body too heavy. The inevitable outcome to his struggles became alarmingly clear.

I’m going to fall, he stilled and felt himself slip further, I’m going to die.

There would be no saving himself this time; he’d smash to pieces on the rocks below before his taxed transformation cog could even come online. His vision flickered as his cockpit continued to grind over the rocks, bringing him ever closer to his doom. All Starscream could manage now was a faint whimper, his screams spent.

He knew he deserved this; it was his fault that he and Skyfire had been caught up in this Primusforsaken storm on this Primusforsaken planet. His fault that Skyfire was likely a shattered corpse on the mountain side. Still, as he began his final descent, a voice - a shameful voice that refused to be quieted no matter how much he tried - shrieked in his head, clamoring to be heard above all else.

I don’t want to die!

Terror seized his spark, shocking his limbs into one last, frantic attempt at salvation. It was futile.

I DON’T WANT TO DIE!

He fell. Opening his mouth, he let out a final, broken scream.

“Skyfire!!!”

“I’ve got you!”

As suddenly as the fall had begun, it stopped. His arm pulled taught and lances of pain pierced through it and his cockpit. The world disappeared, sapped of everything but a cold blackness. After countless moments, warmth and color seeped back in, as a familiar voice, the one that had called to him, spoke again. It was insistent, desperate, as were the arms clasping his limp form. Starscream’s optics fritzed a bit before coming back online. He was in some kind of cave. He could see the deep grey of the sky just beyond and feel the wind and rain graze his wing. It was all remote though. He was more aware of the arms wrapped protectively about him, the feel of someone large and sturdy holding him close. Above all else, he saw brilliant blue optics staring down at him. He watched them soften as a quiet sigh reached his auditory sensors. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

“Thank Primus,” Skyfire breathed, “Starscream, can you hear me?”

Starscream wanted to respond but he couldn’t. All he could do was stare, drinking in the sight of the bot before him. Skyfire was alive. Somehow his mind couldn’t yet process it. He was here. They were together again.

Skyfire’s anxious voice broke in on his thoughts, “It’s okay, Starscream, it’s okay,” It was only then that the smaller jet realized he’d started babbling.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he gasped, “I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Skyfire repeated, “We’re okay.”

Starscream couldn’t stop, “We almost died! I-I almost killed us!”

“But we’re okay now,” Skyfire replied gently, “I’ve got you.”

He rested a servo on the back of Starscream’s head. The touch snapped Starscream back to his senses and he shoved him away. The movement sent shards of pain through him and he clutched a servo to the mangled cockpit situated over his chest.

“Don’t,” he hissed as Skyfire reached for him. He was still shielded by the cave, but he could feel the wind lap hungrily at his wings as he moved backward.

He stopped -  afraid to move any further - and met Skyfire’s worried gaze.

“How...” he began, pausing for a moment to gather his strength, “How can you...This is all my fault! I should have listened to you! Skyfire, I...You could have died because of me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Stop saying that!”

Skyfire regarded him helplessly. Starscream hated it.

“Why aren’t you mad?” he prompted angrily, “You should be furious! You should be...Stop looking at me like that!!!”

He didn’t. “Do you want me to be mad?” Skyfire asked quietly.

Yes...No. “I don’t know!!! Just-” he had to pause before the pain overwhelmed him.

Skyfire moved closer. Starscream told himself not to, but his whole frame ached and trembled and he yearned to be back in Skyfire’s arms, so when Skyfire reached again, the smaller jet could do nothing but melt into him. He cursed his weakness.

“Starscream,” Skyfire’s voice pierced through the turmoil within him. Defeated, Starscream could only listen.

“I’m not angry with you. I don’t think I could ever be angry with you. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know either. What I do know is that I lost you in the storm and assumed the worst, so even though you’re upset, I’d like to just hold you for a while, if that’s okay.”

It was far too easy to comply. Already relaxed against Skyfire, Starscream let himself be pulled closer. The larger jet took special care not to aggravate his injury. It would need to be dealt with, but not now. Right this moment, all Starscream needed was the surety of Skyfire’s arms around him. All his guilt and shame still burned within him, but he couldn’t focus on it if he tried.

They were safe. They were together. That was all that mattered.

“I’ve got you,” Skyfire murmured again, “I’ve always got you.”

Present

The edge of the mountain was shrouded in rain and mist. Even as Starscream dove toward it, he couldn’t be certain he hadn’t flung himself off. His arm extended into nothing. His feet dug into the mud as he felt himself fall forward, just barely managing to snag a jutting rock.

As his entire frame came to a jarring halt, Starscream’s processor seemed to rattle with it. What was he doing? He couldn’t think. The image of Skyfire’s frightened face as he tumbled over the edge was seared into his mind. It was all he could focus on.

I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.

“Skyfire!!!” The call reverberated through Starscream’s spark, splitting it open as forgotten feelings and buried dreams clawed their way out. He couldn’t halt the flood; it washed over him, drowning him in memories.

“Starscream!”

That voice - as it always had - snapped him from the mire of his mind. He peered downward. Just below him, hanging by a crumbling ledge, was Skyfire.

For a moment, it was Starscream hanging for dear life, crying out for rescue. He blinked and the roles reversed again. 

As his precarious handhold collapsed beneath his digits, Skyfire desperately tried to bring another servo up to help. He was forced to stop as the movement only made him slip faster. Rain hissed over the place where Starscream had shot him and he grimaced as smoke blended with the mist. He looked up, blue optics shining in the gloom. Starscream nearly lost his grip when they focused on him.

He recognized those optics. They were the very same that used to look at him as if he were the most lovely thing in the universe. Even when they’d explored new, vibrant planets, he’d felt those optics gazing at him with a fondness that made him want to both laugh and scream. He wasn’t sure which he did now, but from the way the blue of Skyfire’s eyes widened with recognition of his own, he figured it was laughter.

“Skyfire…” he reached for him.

Eyes shining, Skyfire’s servo lifted to meet his, “...Starscream?”

His handhold crumbled even more but neither paid any heed. The storm and the clash of Autobots and Decepticons became remote. This time, though, the world didn’t seem to shrink until it was just the two of them. It seemed to grow. Starscream felt a heavy weight in his spark start to lift. His servo reached past millions of years to seek out that familiar yet forgotten touch. He wanted it more than anything, just a hint at what they once were and could be again.

In the faltering light, the insignia affixed to Skyfire’s chest gleamed.

The world shrank. The weight in Starscream’s spark settled back down until he almost felt it would drag him over the edge.

He snatched his hand away just as Skyfire’s digits grazed his own. The touch was like electricity arcing through him. It was tantalizingly, achingly familiar. It promised love and security and everything that had been denied him for millions of years.

It was a convincing lie, but Starscream couldn’t be fooled that easily. 

As he stood up slowly, Skyfire’s round, wide, and impossibly blue optics followed him. Starscream wanted to plunge his digits into them until the Autobot started screaming. The flicker of horror he felt at the thought died instantly as Skyfire spoke again.

“Starscream?” he repeated, his voice wavering.

It was his voice, and for the first time in his long, painful life, Starscream was not consoled by it.

“You…” His voice should have been lost to the wind but somehow Skyfire heard and grew deathly silent.

Memories collided within Starscream’s mind. Skyfire holding him, speaking softly to him, laughing with him, exploring with him, rescuing him...

They were all lies. Skyfire betrayed him. Starscream had circled half the globe searching for him, carried the weight of guilt for so long that it had become as familiar as flight, suffered in silence for cycles upon cycles, all for what?

“Starscream,” the Autobot begged, “Please.”

The plea was music to Starscream’s auditory sensors. He let it play, let Skyfire try to sway him again, enjoying every moment of the Autobot’s agony.

Skyfire’s voice grew quiet, “Don’t you remember?”

Starscream hesitated. He did remember. All of it. His fists clenched as his foot stomped downward.

“TRAITOR!!!”

Helpless, Skyfire could only give a strangled cry as Starscream’s foot crunched into his upturned face. The Decepticon watched his enemy fall, his own face lighting up with a terrible grin.

Skyfire barely managed to slow his descent by digging his servos into the muddy cliffside just enough to crash into a protruding ledge. He lay there motionless for countless moments, his recent fall marked by dents in his fuselage and muddy stains dimming his crisp white. He looked broken. Starscream couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy.

When Skyfire at last came to, his gaze was unfocused. The clear blue of his eyes were crusted with dirt and likely cracked by the impact of Starscream’s foot. The steady rain did a poor job of washing all the muck from his frame, only succeeding in making it bleed into the remaining white. His optics turned upward and somehow found Starscream in the hazy mist. He almost seemed to know where the other jet was without needing to see.

It was there, atop that war torn peak, that Skyfire first looked upon Starscream with fury. No, not fury. Hate.

“Skyfire!” Optimus Prime’s booming voice echoed across the mountain, “Where are you?”

Starscream turned. The Autobots stood on a field of victory, the remains of the Decepticons’ machine scattered amongst its fallen creators. He scowled and turned to confront his foes, when he felt a sudden whoosh of air blast past him. Looking up, he watched as Skyfire sailed over his head to land heavily on the mountaintop.

Without hesitation, Starscream opened fire, only to hit the dirt when the other Autobots returned it. By the time he tentatively lifted his head, all three Autobots had retreated into Skyfire’s fuselage. NO! Starscream rushed forward, his guns vainly attempting to bring the cargo plane down even though he knew he was out of range.

“NO!” he shrieked into the mist, “COME BACK, YOU COWARD!”

But Skyfire had already been lost to the grey sky, leaving Starscream alone. Again.

He continued to stare at the space where he’d last seen Skyfire, unable to look away. He felt as if he’d been awoken from a cruel dream. It took every bit of his willpower not to scream his agony into the sky above. All he wanted in that moment was to hunt Skyfire down and make him suffer. He wanted to hear his screams of terror as he at last cornered him and slammed him into the dirt, gun pointed right between those too blue optics.

How could you do this? He’d scream, Did any of it matter? Did I matter?

Starscream knew the answer already. He turned to face his forces, who all looked to him for guidance.

“Decepticons, take flight!” Without waiting to see if they followed, Starscream transformed and took to the air. To his dismay, there was no trace of the Autobots. They’d be back, though; they never stayed down.

One of them will, Starscream vowed, That traitor will die by my hand.

The rain continued to pour as three jets - and one passenger cassette - returned to their base, leaving the mountain top to be shrouded in mist once more. All they left of their battle were the remnants of an evil machine and a singular gun that had slipped from a foolish Autobot’s hand.

Epilogue- Past

The flight back to Cybertron felt like it lasted millions of cycles. Crouched in Skyfire’s fuselage, Starscream lamented as much to his partner. Skyfire’s only response was an exasperated yet fond sigh; Starscream could tell he was just glad to hear him speak without wheezing.

The damage to his cockpit was extensive but not life-threatening. After a thorough inspection, Skyfire had determined as much. He’d carefully removed some of the smaller bits of crystal from Starscream’s frame and left the larger ones to be handled by a medic. Starscream had wanted to appear brave, but he hadn’t been able to stifle the quiet whimper that escaped him. Luckily, Skyfire responded by wrapping him up in another hug, which had instantly soothed the smaller jet.

When they at last returned to Cybertron, Skyfire was quick to usher him to a medic. In fact, Starscream’s feet barely touched the ground before Skyfire scooped him up and rushed into the medical facility. The hospital was just one branch of the science center that had been built there. For the most part, the civil unrest that had broken out over Cybertron had not affected the science community. It was only a matter of time, though.

Starscream and Skyfire were meant to report to their superiors in the Scientific Exploration department. After much convincing from Starscream, Skyfire had at last agreed to leave his side and speak with the higher-ups, taking a few samples of crystal with him, also at Starscream’s urging. It was what they’d been sent for, after all; it shouldn’t matter that they’d ended up having to gather it from Starscream’s mangled cockpit.

The procedure to repair his cockpit was fairly long but luckily Starscream was in stasis for most of it. When he awakened and examined himself, he was pleased by the results. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his windows shine quite so brightly. He couldn’t help but hope Skyfire would notice, too.

Skyfire was pacing in the waiting room when he emerged. The moment Skyfire spotted him, he almost seemed to teleport to his side.

“Are you okay? I was worried something had gone wrong.”

“Don’t worry, Skyfire,” Starscream said with a slight smile, “I am the picture of health.”

Skyfire looked him up and down, “You’re certainly...shinier,” he said with a bit of awe.

Starscream beamed internally, “Thank you for noticing.”

The two walked out side by side, arms brushing. Starscream wanted to savor the moment, but his curiosity got the better of him.

“So, what did our bosses have to say?” he asked, barely hiding his disdain. He didn’t like having to report to superiors; he’d rather make his own decisions than comply with someone else’s. Maybe one day…

“The crystals seem promising, though they’ll have to perform further tests,” Skyfire replied, “In the meantime, there’s another planet they want us to investigate right away. It’s uncharted, as of yet. There might not even be intelligent life on the surface, though long distance scans hint to a great energy source.”

Ordinarily, Starscream would have leaped for joy at an assignment such as this, but as he watched Skyfire speak, he couldn’t help but recall how close he’d been to losing him. They were lucky to stand here together at all.

Sensing his hesitation, Skyfire favored Starscream with a concerned frown, “What’s the matter?”

“You know what’s the matter,” Starscream huffed. He didn’t mean to take his anger out on his partner - especially since he was really mad at himself - but it was difficult. Skyfire didn’t respond in kind, though. He never did.

“It’ll be okay, Starscream,” Skyfire reached down to grasp his servo firmly, “So long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.”

And because Skyfire’s voice never failed to console him, Starscream believed what he said. He squeezed his servo back and smiled up into Skyfire’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Together, then.”

[disastermages]

[read it on ao3]

1 2 3 4 5 6

“A-Yao, do you know how to drive?” Jiang Yanli’s question is quiet and gentle, even as the tires leave a spray of mud behind them as the gates close, the keyfob still swaying and jingling where it hangs from the ignition.

“I’ve never had a reason to learn.” Meng Yao confesses, his hand already reaching for the inner handle of the car as Jiang Yanli’s hands tighten while they go down a hill that seems much steeper now than it had when he’d gone up it. The way Jiang Yanli had called his name hadn’t gone unnoticed, but Meng Yao won’t call her out for it, not while she’s driving them both to town, not while the rain is making the windshield wipers squeal.

She smiles at him then, leaning forward in her seat to peer out the windshield, “I could teach you. I taught A-Xian, and I’m teaching A-Cheng, it’ll be fun.” The road in front of them evens out, but Meng Yao knows it’s only temporary, soon enough they would run into a mud filled pothole, or find another hill Jiang Yanli would have to guide them up one hill and down another, dense trees lining them the whole way.

“Who taught you?” Meng Yao asks, so he neither has to accept nor decline Jiang Yanli’s offer, it’s the polite way of not answering, but the smile still falls from Jiang Yanli’s face for just a moment, one hand leaving the wheel to brush her own hair out of her face.

“Miss Mo did.” She answers finally, swerving hard to avoid a particularly deep pothole and sending Meng Yao’s shoulder and arm against the window. “She used to take me with her to run the errands, sometimes she even let me do the shopping myself so she could go visit with her son for a little while.” The smile hasn’t made it back onto Jiang Yanli’s face, but she’s more careful about the next rut filled with mud, even as her eyes cloud over with something Meng Yao thinks he knows.

“Your mother mentioned that she had a child.” Meng Yao says it softly, a chill wrapping around his arms like a lover and making him shiver. Yu Ziyuan had told him that Miss Mo’s child was like him, one of his father’s children who hadn’t been claimed, or who had been refused.

“Mo Xuanyu.” Jiang Yanli says, giving a name to someone who Meng Yao isn’t sure if he wants to know. They might be similar, they might be completely, irreparably different, he doesn’t know. “Sometimes, when Mother was away, she’d bring him with her to the house. He’d spend all day following A-Xian around and asking him questions, he was such a sweet boy.”

The car bounces over a rock, and Meng Yao bounces in his seat, the handlebar doing nothing to keep him steady now that he’s allowed himself to become limp. His younger brother was sweet, and he followed Wei Wuxian around like some lost puppy. He asked Wei Wuxian questions, and undoubtedly, Wei Wuxian had answered him.

“Mo Xuanyu, do you know…” Meng Yao doesn’t need to finish the question, Jiang Yanli is already shaking her head, her grip on the steering wheel tight enough to turn her knuckles bone white.

“Mother said that after Miss Mo did what she did, A-Yu was sent to live with his mother’s family. They tried to find his father, but when they did…” It’s now Jiang Yanli’s turn to avoid finishing what she was saying, thunder rolls above them, holding all the answers to questions that had sat on either of their lips.

When Meng Yao dares to glance at Jiang Yanli again, she offers him her worried smile, but says nothing else before she speeds up to pass another, slower car. The yellow of it fades quickly in the gray of the storm.

The grocery store and the post office aren’t far from the marina where Meng Yao had arrived, and Jiang Yanli points it out to him as they turn in, though the water looks far, far rougher than it had on the day he’d arrived. When he’d come, the water had been slate gray, now it’s got a green tinged black to it that nearly makes Meng Yao reach for his throat.

The ferry wouldn’t be running today.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, could you pick up the mail for the rest of the house, A-Yao? You’ll only have to tell them who you are, A-Die’s already made it clear that you’re allowed to take our mail out.” For a moment, Meng Yao wonders if Jiang Fengmian had done it himself, or if he’d sent Jiang Yanli to do it, but Meng Yao still agrees, and Jiang Yanli’s smile becomes real as she turns over the keys to two P.O. boxes. One for her mother’s business, she says, and the other for her father’s business, any other mail he’d have to ask the teller for.

Jiang Yanli tells him to meet her at the car once she’s done shopping, a smile on her face as she climbs out of the car, heedless and uncaring of the mud.

Meng Yao watches her go before he ducks into the post office, the letters in his hand feeling just a little damp, either from the humidity or from his own, sweating palms. The boxes are the easiest parts, he only needs the keys for them and a single finger to keep them separated, a voice inside him demanding that Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan’s mail not touch one another, it’s the rest of the mail that makes him feel as though something is climbing up his throat like a vine that wraps around his tongue and makes it too heavy to use.

He recognizes the teller at the mail counter, but he isn’t sure if she recognizes him, her eyes are dull and blank, but that means nothing. “I’ve come to pick up the mail for the Jiang family.” Meng Yao had rehearsed that phrase, but now he hopes it doesn’t sound as though he had, he hopes it sounds easy, but if it doesn’t, the teller betrays nothing.

“Your name?” The teller asks, and Meng Yao feels himself pale.

“Meng Yao, I’m the bookkeeper for the Jiangs.”

The teller only squints at him for a moment, trying and hopefully failing to place him in her memory, all while Meng Yao wants nothing more than to bolt back out into the humidity, “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be, wait here.” The teller disappears into a back room and Meng Yao nearly melts onto the counter, his spine and knees feeling like jelly until they reappear, a stack of white envelopes resting on top of a box, bound with tape, and then bound again, the stickers proclaiming it international mail. “You’ll have to sign for the package, is there anything else?”

Meng Yao busies himself with the slip for the package one moment, and holds Jiang Fengmian’s outgoing mail the next, “I’d like these sent out.”

It had been as simple as that, no moment had come when he’d been dressed down and made to feel small, but his shoulders are still tight as he backs out of the post office, envelopes held between his arm and the package. He wouldn’t drop anything, he wouldn’t make anything get wet or illegible in the rain.

Or at least he’d tried.

Meng Yao had tried to keep everything dry and safe, but someone had bumped into him from behind, and two others were closing in on him from either side, grins that he recognizes all too well on their faces.

“I heard you were back, but I didn’t believe it.” Meng Yao doesn’t look up as he gathers the mail he’d been forced to drop, his hands are too quick for the muddy shoe that tries to come down on them, he’d forgotten about this, but his body had remembered. His hands and his arms remember how to dodge shoes that would step on them or kick them.

“Daddy didn’t want you, so you came back home, and now you’re working for the spooky Jiangs?” It’s the faux friendly tone that makes Meng Yao’s stomach lurch, bile rising up as if he’d already been kicked in the stomach. Meng Yao stands up straight and looks away defiantly, even as one of them comes closer, pinning him against the wall, though they never touch.

“What’s YaoYao gonna do when we tell the Jiangs that-” Whatever threat that was about to be spoken, is cut off by a grunt of pain and a flash of red as Meng Yao finally looks up. Before anyone can speak again, another rock is being thrown, smaller this time, but no less sharp and rough at the edges.

“Leave him alone!” Jiang Yanli’s voice is sharp and clear from where she stands, her eyes dark and her hair gone frizzy with the rain and humidity. Her groceries sit on the sidewalk, but she’s got another handful of rocks held tight in her fists, ready to throw them.

She doesn’t have to throw any more rocks though, once the former bullies who’d surrounded him realize who’d been the one throwing the rocks, they turn tail and run, spewing curses at the both of them, even as Jiang Yanli lets her handful clatter back onto the gravel drive of the post office. Jiang Yanli had muddied her slacks for him, it’s all Meng Yao can notice as she comes closer, her hands gentle on his arms.

“Miss Jiang, you’re forgetting your groceries.” Meng Yao tries to say, but his voice comes out small, “The bags will rip if they get too wet.”

“Are you alright? You’re shivering.” Jiang Yanli’s voice is too gentle, too familiar, Meng Yao closes his eyes against it and forces himself to nod. He is fine, he would be fine, he would swallow down the lump forming in his throat, but for now, he allows himself to be led back to the car and sat down in it by Jiang Yanli, her mouth pressed into a fine line now. He buckles himself in as she runs back to get the groceries and put them in the back of the car.

They say nothing to each other as Jiang Yanli reverses out of the parking lot too quickly, her eyes are still angry, but Meng Yao knows that they aren’t angry at him.

“A-Yao, you know that you don’t deserve to hear what they were saying to you, don’t you?” Jiang Yanli is still driving too fast, but Meng Yao only rests his head against the window. He’s pleasantly surprised that the mail and the package haven’t fallen to the floor by now.

When he goes too long without answering, Jiang Yanli looks away from the road and at him, anger settling into something else. “The last time my family went to see your father’s family, A-Xian got into an argument with your cousin.” Jiang Yanli’s words are firm, but Meng Yao can only glance at her. “I wanted to break his nose for what he said to A-Xian, but instead, I made him feel just as low as he’d tried to make A-Xian feel. I can’t remember if he cried or not, but I hope he did, I hated him then and I hate him now.”

Coldness is creeping into Jiang Yanli’s words and her eyes now, making her look more and more like her mother until she slows enough to look at him without running the risk of crashing the car. “You’re my friend now, A-Yao, I’ll look after you just like I look after A-Xian.”

“Miss Jiang-”

“You should only call me Miss Jiang in front of my mother now, A-Yao, I won’t settle for anything else.” Jiang Yanli tries to sound stern, but there’s amusement in her voice. Meng Yao wants to curl into a ball.

“You’re being too nice to me.” Meng Yao doesn’t mean to say it aloud, but it still comes out, and he can’t take it back, even as Jiang Yanli shakes her head. He couldn’t allow Jiang Yanli to be as kind to him as she was trying to be, eventually the kindness would run out. It always did. It always would. That was how it worked, that was how it always worked with him.

“I’m not.” Jiang Yanli says, her hair is smoother now, though Meng Yao had never seen her reach up and pat it down.

The rain had only gotten heavier while they’d been driving, and Jiang Yanli had been forced into a crawl, the car loping up muddy hills and over water filled tire tracks. They wouldn’t be able to leave the manor again until it dried, Jiang Yanli tells him this, but then assures him that she’d bought extra because of it. Her mother had pressed one of her credit cards into her hand before they’d left.

Jiang Yanli had used it to buy treats for the lot of them, Meng Yao included.

“Miss-” Meng Yao stops himself, his grip on the mail in his lap tightening as Jiang Yanli argues with the last steep hill, his eyes falling onto an unfamiliar name, though the package is addressed to Wei Wuxian. It uses his birth name, “Yanli, who is Xiao Xingchen?”

Jiang Yanli turns to look at him, and perhaps for the first time, her eyes light upon the box in Meng Yao’s lap, a sweeter smile warming her face, “A-Xian’s uncle on his mother’s side. He’s traveling the world with his partner, and they’ve been sending A-Xian presents from most of the major cities, where’s the package from this time?”

Meng Yao can barely make it out without his glasses, but as the car crests the hill, he catches it, “Amsterdam.”

“A-Xian will be pleased, the last one came from London a few months ago.”

Another question burns on Meng Yao’s tongue, but he swallows it down, they’ve almost reached the manor now.

Just like they had been when he’d first arrived, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin are waiting to help Jiang Yanli carry in the groceries. Meng Yao is allowed to help this time.

Yu Ziyuan does not touch her husband’s mail, but she does lay claim to the gossip magazine that had been in one of the grocery bags, her eyes meeting Meng Yao’s for just a moment before she shrugs and walks away.

Meng Yao doesn’t know why he feels the need to tuck the information away for later.

It isn’t until after dinner that Wen Qing goes into the kitchen and walks right back out, her coat over her arm and her face white. “Mrs. Yu,” she calls, her voice sounding too normal to be normal, her nails digging into the doorway where she stands, “There’s a man walking around outside the house, trying all the doors and windows.”

“Who is it?” Yu Ziyuan asks, rising slowly and calmly from her place at the head of the table, all three Jiang children rising with her, but Wen Qing shakes her head.

“I don’t know, Ma’am, it was too dark to see.” Jiang Yanli is the one who breaks away from the table first, her hands reaching and grabbing onto Wen Qing to guide her back to the table, though she doesn’t come away, she drops down onto her knees and sets both of her hands onto Wen Qing’s thighs.

Meng Yao looks at Lan Xichen as he rounds the table, protective, but not touching him yet.

“A-Cheng, Wei Ying, stay with A-Li.” Yu Ziyuan gives her orders clearly, tossing her napkin down onto the table, ignoring the way Jiang Yanli calls for her to stay with them, where they can see her. Meng Yao feels Lan Xichen’s hand on the small of his back, he doesn’t take it away as Yu Ziyuan comes back into the room, a poker from the fireplace held in her hand. “A-Li, where did you hide your father’s hunting rifle? It wasn’t in the study.”

The fireplace poker may as well be a sword in Yu Ziyuan’s hand with the way she holds it, her shoulders squared and back, but it isn’t the fireplace poker that she wants.

“Mother! You can’t use that rifle!” Jiang Yanli’s voice is low, but the objection in it is clear as she rises from where she’d been kneeling next to Wen Qing.

“I can use it better than your father ever could, A-Li, now where is it?”

As if to emphasize Yu Ziyuan’s words, a pounding comes from the front door, and echoes all the way into the dining room, though the shouts that come with it get lost.

“I asked A-Xian to put it away at the end of the last season,” Jiang Yanli admits finally, her hand finding Wen Qing’s as she stumbles backwards and Wen Qing rises up to catch her. Another round of pounding comes, and Lan Xichen’s hand slips around to Meng Yao’s thigh, they’d be caught soon, but Meng Yao doesn’t have it in him to care now.

“Wei Ying? Where is it?”

Wei Wuxian licks his lips and shakes his head as he tries to think, but whoever it is at the door is rattling them now, and finally, “I don’t remember!”

Meng Yao watches as Yu Ziyuan’s grip tightens on the fireplace poker, her knuckles turning white. “Must I do everything in this house myself?” Yu Ziyuan asks finally, the words grinding out as she pushes past all of them, out into the hall, her heels clicking all the while.

They only look at each other for a second before the rush to follow her comes, though the door is already swinging wide in the wind. Lan Xichen takes the lead, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin following behind him, leaving Meng Yao, Jiang Yanli, and Wen Qing to trail behind.

Lightning flashes outside, but Jiang Fengmian stands before all of them, a puddle gathering at his feet while his coat and hat drip. Yu Ziyuan still holds the fireplace poker in her hands, though she now looks like a wet cat. “You’re early.” She states, frowning and looking at her husband.

“My flight left early to beat the rain.” Jiang Fengmian nods to all of them as they stand just behind Yu Ziyuan, their hands tragically empty of pokers, “The cab caught the worst of it on the drive home.”

Breathing in deep enough that her shoulders rise, Yu Ziyuan doesn’t turn to them as she speaks, “A-Cheng, put this away, A-Li, make sure your father eats something. I’m going to bed.”

Yu Ziyuan does not wait for any of them to wish her goodnight as she turns and stomps towards the stairs, her heels still clicking loudly.

They all watch her until they can see her no more, Jiang Wanyin holds the poker to his chest just the way his mother had shoved it at him.

“Mr. Meng,” Jiang Fengmian calls, and Jiang Yanli and Wen Qing step aside, “I hope you’ve made yourself at home.”

“Of course, sir.” Meng Yao says, ducking his head.

He has, hasn’t he?

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 63)

Goodbyes

Soooo this one has some gory details I guess, and some sad moments. But I hope you enjoy! Please let me know if you’re still enjoying this because I could use the motivation haha 😅

Tagging @emily-strange and @actuallyhansolo ❤

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

-

I stood outside the tent flaps. They were drawn closed and shivered in the wind in a ghostly fashion that made the hair on my arms stand up when the wind didn't even have much of a chill. The sounds I heard weren't pleasant. Shaky, gurgled breaths, rolling grunts and heaves, raspy inhales and sharp exhales. A near constant string of sickening moans. He was alone in there, with Dutch off out somewhere, with Miss Grimshaw giving him all she could before leaving the tent, and nobody else liking him enough to want to sit by his bedside… Micah was alone. Alone, and dying. 

I sighed and pulled back the canvas and peered inside. There he was, laying down on Dutch's bed, his shirt was off and his gut was bound up with bandages and rags, tight, but blood had still managed to seep through. The tent smelled like sweat and something rotten, like death, it was heady and warm and it caught in my throat and made me want to gag, but I entered anyway. I approached him, looked down at his scrunched up, agonised face, shiny with perspiration and a mix of deathly washed out skin and blotchy, feverish redness in his cheeks, running down to his neck. His hair looked wet and it clung to his forehead and laid limp and messy, framing his head against the pillow. 

I covered my mouth with my hand and stared down at the sight before me. This man… whom I'd worked with, spoken with, shared a drink with, lived with. Whom once upon a time had seemed like a friend, like our bond would grow closer in the name of the gang and the family we shared. But here he was, laying motionless and in pain, suffering in a prolonged state of hell. Because he'd tried to kill me. 

I felt guilty. No. I felt as though I should feel guilty, but I didn't. And that in itself generated a sickly sensation in the pit of my stomach that was something like guilt, but far more muddied. 

"Micah," I whispered, my head shaking of its own accord. His eyes flashed open and he stared up at me with a bloodshot, dilated gaze that unnerved me. His teeth were bared, and something that sounded like his laugh escaped him but was quickly interrupted by a choking cough and a groan. "You really did it this time," I sighed. 

"F– fu–" the sounds he made were weak, shaky, drawn out and almost incomprehensible. He was struggling bad. 

"I'm surprised you thought you could get away with that. You know that even if you had shot me, Arthur would've killed you immediately afterwards. It wasn't the smartest move. But you're paying for it. For your lies and betrayal and the suffering you have caused," I said to him, standing over him. He stared at me, unblinking, shivering. "You smell like death," I added. 

"You'll– you'll never be free. Y-you know that… right?" He spoke breathlessly. I stared blankly at him. 

"You'll be free soon. From all this," was my nonchalant response. "You're gonna die." 

"I'm a fighter," he hissed, his shaking hand rising to his gut, gingerly resting there against the soiled bandages. 

"You don't look good at all," I frowned sadly at him. "Arthur stabbed you deep. Charles said it might've punctured your bowels."

A grunt of some sort came from him, it wasn't clear whether he was trying to speak. 

"That's a death sentence, really. How could it not be? Your heart is pumping dirty blood to every part of your body," I bent down, leaning close to him. "Even dirtier than it was when you weren't dyin'."

Micah's face screwed up tighter, something like dread seeping into his aura. 

"I'm just having fun with you, sweet thing," I whispered to him, smirking as I regurgitated his own words back to him.

"'Least my prediction came true," he grunted. 

"Which one?" 

"We'd either f-fuck each other or–"

"Oh yeah," I cut him off. "Only it ain't me that's killed you." 

A smile passed over my lips as I thought of Arthur. 

"And you're alone. Ain't nobody here to help you through your suffering," I continued. 

"You're here," he pointed out, seemingly taking a kind of satisfaction from it. 

"Only so I remember this," I shrugged. "I'd rather this be my last memory of you, instead of that God awful kiss."

My gut churned uncomfortably. I felt so strange. At the mention of his kiss, I almost pitied him, and that brought some real guilt. His eyes kept trying to roll back, his breathing was becoming far more strained and the gap between each one increased and increased. He didn't have long, that much was clear. 

He was evil. He'd betrayed the gang, tried to frame me and then tried to kill me, all the while toying with me from day one. Kissing me just so he could violate me. What a vile man.

Even so, I didn't feel good about the way he was dying. I rested my hand on the Schofield revolver at my hip, wondering whether I should use it. I eyed Micah, his gaze had gone soft, out of focus, ascending to the top of the tent. I never thought I would see him so weak and vulnerable. I dropped my hand away and sighed.

"Things could've been so different, you know," I told him, brow curving, bottom lip protruding. "You did all this. If you'd just left me be earlier in Van Horn, if you'd kept your mouth shut to those Pinkertons– no, if you'd never worked for the Pinkertons at all. Maybe we'd all have a fighting chance. But you thought you were special, huh?"

I shook my head and sighed. 

"Don't think for one second that any of this ain't your fault," I finished. "But I suppose I should thank you, really… if it weren't for all this, Arthur and I wouldn't be leaving tonight. Jack wouldn't be getting away from here with his family just yet. Who knows when that would've happened without your help."

He wasn't making much noise, and I stepped forwards, frowning. I reached my hand out, hovering the back of it in front of his mouth and nose. I felt his hot breath against my skin and immediately withdrew. It was weak, but it was there. I swallowed hard. 

"Thank you, Micah," I finally said. Then I turned around, heading out of the tent. I paused before walking away, considering my next actions carefully, unsure if it was the right thing to do but knowing that I would think about it for years to come if I didn't. I took the canvas in hand and drew it back, securing it in place to expose the outside world to him. I didn't know for certain why I was compelled to do that; perhaps it stemmed back to when my brother and I opened a window when each of our parents passed to let their souls leave. Perhaps it was because I figured Micah deserved at least one last look at the rising sun. Either way, I walked away once the tent was open, knowing that it was the last I'd see of him alive. 

Arthur caught my eyes from across camp. He looked as though he'd been searching for something, and by the way he immediately beelined for me, I realised it had probably been me. I met him halfway, and he eyed up the open tent behind me with a small frown upon his face. 

"What're you doing in there with him? He don't deserve one second of your time," he scolded, though his hands scrubbed my upper arms affectionately. 

"Just needed to see how he was doing. He's goin', Arthur. Ain't nothing for it," I shook my head. His eyes were intense in how they gazed into mine, and he nodded slowly.

"I can't believe he kissed you," he whispered. 

"No… I can't say I expected it," I frowned, looking down, "I'm so sorry."

"Ain't you who's gotta be sorry."

"No, I do, maybe I… maybe I pushed him. I should'a known better than even talking to him when he was in that mood."

"What mood?" Arthur frowned.

"Just, saying all this crap, about how there's something between him and I, a fire, when we bicker," I murmured, not really wanting Arthur to hear it. "When he kissed me, I froze, couldn't do nothing. I'm sorry." 

Arthur was quiet for too long and it made me anxious. When I looked up at him, his eyes were distant and hurt and angry, and he was gazing towards Micah.

"Arthur?" I whispered. His jaw grew tenser and I could practically see the plan forming in his head, then a second passed and he began walking, but I grabbed his arm to stop him. "He's dying anyway, leave it."

"I can make it quicker–"

"Arthur, just stop. I don't want that. He got what he deserved already, I just wanna leave him behind. What he did don't matter, didn't mean a damn thing," I pleaded, holding his arm tight despite the fact he carried on walking. "Please kiss me. Make me forget about it," I cried out, and it made him stop. 

He was still for a moment, his back to me. Then he whirled around and cupped my face, pushing his mouth to mine and stealing my breath, exploring me with tongue and kissing me with such a flame it burned and melted me beneath his fingertips. Didn't matter at all that we were in the middle of camp. When he broke the kiss his mouth stayed close to mine, puffing hot breaths. 

Before he could say or do anything, I asked; "when're we leaving?" 

"Soon. Abigail got the money. Just our share, like we discussed. I've packed our things and spoke to a few others– Lenny's coming too. And… and Susan is," he said, and my eyes flashed wide and I jerked back a bit in surprise. He was nodding in agreement before I even said anything, "I know, I'm as surprised as you are. She came and spoke to me after she realised what we was planning and invited herself along without a second thought. I weren't even planning on asking, just coz she's been with Dutch so long–"

"I thought she was on his side! Patching Micah up like that," I exclaimed and Arthur nodded. 

"Yeah, so did I. But she was just doing what she felt she had to. Was a wild few minutes when all that happened, she couldn't just leave him. But she… she's had time to think now," he told me, looking over his shoulder at her as she packed up her things. He whispered the next part. "She's not happy with Dutch's behaviour. She sees as clear as I do how he's changed."

"God… it feels good knowing we ain't alone," I sighed. 

Arthur nodded. "Lenny don't like how he's been handling things, neither. Wanting to leave John to rot, taking advantage of Eagle Flies."

"Tilly's leaving. So are Mary-Beth and Kieran. I asked 'em if they wanted to come with us, but it seems they're trying to get away from it all for good," I told him. Arthur exhaled and his shoulders dropped. It was relief. 

"Good. That's good. What about Karen?" 

"I don't know about Karen. She says she's fine, but…" I trailed off. "She didn't say she'd come with us."

"I'll try talking to her," he said, and I nodded. 

"But Charles said he'd come, and he asked Sadie… we got quite the family forming," I said hopefully.

"It'll just be till we get on our feet, make sure everyone's got a plan. A real one. A proper way out; not what Dutch's been promising all this time."

"And then what?" I asked, and Arthur blew a jet of air through his lips as his eyes peeled to the sky. 

"I don't rightly know. Maybe you and I'll head west like we were going to before… before everything," he breathed. I nodded, reaching up and stroking his cheek. 

"I love you," I whispered to him, and he cupped his hand over mine and leaned into it, closing his eyes momentarily. 

"Then it's all worth it," he whispered, then took my hand from his face and squeezed it, "come on, princess, let's finish packing up. We're taking a couple wagons, don't care what anyone says. I want us gone before Dutch comes back."

-

The gang disbanded a little like this; while we were preparing to leave, others dropped off too. Trelawny was the first to get gone, he spoke to Arthur and I and we wished each other the best of luck and then he waltzed out of camp like he'd done many times before. Pearson was next, he quietly slipped away with only a few words of goodbye. Then Swanson and Uncle left. Mary-Beth and Kieran were all prepared to go but hung back, seemed nervous and hesitant. Some didn't seem prepared to leave at all. Most notably Javier and Bill, of course, but also Strauss. He sat with his little ledger and didn't move, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Not that I had any disappointment over the fact he wasn't coming with us, after the work he gave to Arthur.

We were all ready. Arthur, Charles, Sadie, John, Abigail, Jack, Lenny, Susan and I. Our things were distributed across two wagons and we could leave at any moment. It was so strange. Bill had come over to argue over us taking the wagons but Arthur had reasoned with him. It wasn't a violent or aggressive reasoning, it was a respectful plea. Let us go our way so that you can go yours. As thick-skulled as Bill could be, even he accepted it.

Tilly approached Arthur and I where we stood by the wagon, making final preparations for our departure. Karen was behind her, looking dazed and tired and only slightly more sober than the last time I'd seen her. 

"I, uh, I'm leaving now… and I'm taking Karen with me, ain't that right?" Tilly said firmly, glancing over her shoulder at Karen. 

"It's a hostage situation," Karen murmured, her arms crossed vulnerably over her chest. Tilly breathed a laugh and shook her head. 

"I'm gonna make sure she pulls herself together. We both need to get away from this, find something normal. I ain't leaving her to find some ditch to lay down and die in," she explained bluntly and Karen scoffed.

"I love how you see my potential, Miss Jackson," Karen rolled her name off her tongue with attitude, but a lot of love. It was honestly a massive relief to know that they would be leaving together. They'd have each other, and Tilly was a smart woman and she'd make sure Karen looked after herself. They just needed a better environment to thrive in. 

"You're my friend, Karen, I'm just being honest," Tilly sighed. I smiled at them both. 

"You two look after each other, alright? You're good people. Smart. Kind. You'll get on out there alright, I know it," Arthur said, reaching a hand out and knocking Tilly's chin with the edge of his knuckle like she was his little sister. My smile only widened. 

"Arthur–" Tilly began, but her voice wavered and her eyes looked wet, and she took a moment. A lump formed in my throat immediately. "Thank you for being in my life," she managed. Arthur took a shaky breath and wordlessly pulled her into his chest for a gentle hug. I pressed my lips together and averted my eyes, trying desperately not to cry. 

"You bastards, you're making me wanna cry," Karen bemoaned, and nestled herself against the two to join the hug. She was accepted easily, and Arthur's arm came to wrap around me as well, dragging me in whether I liked it or not. 

"You girls, all'a you; you're all the best people I know. I just want you all to be safe and happy, and I know this situation is messed up and it ain't ended too well, but…" Arthur began, taking a breath before finishing, "it's for the best. I know it."

We all parted after a moment, and Mary-Beth and Kieran joined us. 

"You're all saying your goodbyes?" Mary-Beth tentatively asked with a small smile. "We're heading out too, wanna go before…"

"Before Dutch comes back?" Karen asked. She nodded.

"Seems we all have the same idea," I breathed. 

"I love each and every one of you, remember that," Mary-Beth told us, "I will always think of you, and I hope somehow we can keep in touch."

Arthur glanced at me considerately for a moment. "Send all your letters to Miss Jemima Jones in… in Manzanita Post. We'll check there if ever we pass through. We'll find each other some way or another, we ain't ever lost each other before."

“That’s right… I… I feel a little better leaving knowing that you’re all leaving too. Last few weeks ain’t been easy– well, they’ve been just awful. And after what happened today, I just can't see this thing lasting any longer," Mary-Beth said quietly, "everyone's just so divided."

"Micah was gonna shoot you!" Tilly exclaimed, nodding along with Mary Beth and turning her wide, doll-like eyes to me. "Right there in front of everyone! Even Jack was there," she sighed, shaking her head. 

"Well it turned out to be his last mistake, didn't it? The fool," I said, almost a little too mournfully. I wasn't sad that Micah was dying. I was sad that things had turned out in such a way. So full of poison and betrayal and heartache. It tore the gang apart. 

"Good riddance," Karen scoffed. 

"I can't say the same thing for you folk," Mary-Beth said sadly, then took my hand and then Tilly's in hers. "I really am gonna miss you girls. And boys," she turned her smile to Arthur and he nodded a little bashfully.

"Kieran, you better look after this lady, treat her right," Arthur said sternly to the man who had been standing sheepishly and silently behind his sweetheart. 

"Oh, I– I will, sir, I'll do my utmost," Kieran nodded firmly, squaring his shoulders and standing up straight. Mary-Beth broke into a fit of giggles and playfully smacked the back of her hand against his chest.

"Mr. Morgan, I did not realise you were my father!" She exclaimed. I snorted and grinned up at Arthur who shook his head fondly and smiled, but otherwise said nothing. "Anyway, we best get going." 

"Said all your goodbyes?" I asked.

Mary-Beth nodded, "I have. I tried not to linger too long 'cause otherwise I'll start crying and I'll never leave," she chuckled.

"Yeah, I understand," I smiled and squeezed her hand. She took a breath, glanced at Kieran, then back at us. 

"Well then. Until we meet again, whenever, wherever that may be," she breathed. 

"The very best of luck to you," I said.

"Take care," Arthur nodded. 

"Thanks for everything," Kieran blurted out, "this all changed my life and I– I'm real grateful."

"Grateful? We had you tied to a tree, boy!" Arthur bellowed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Get out of here, enjoy your life. Stay out of trouble. Lord knows you ain't cut out to be an outlaw anyways."

"Yes sir," he nodded and took Mary-Beth's hand, and they each gave us one last smile.

And with that, Mary-Beth and Kieran skedaddled, and disappeared on the little wagon they'd claimed for themselves.

Not long after that, Karen and Tilly left too. They said the rest of their goodbyes and left on horseback quietly and discreetly with only a few tears from Karen, surprisingly. Tilly held it together well and comforted her, but I could see that she was struggling to hold back emotion of her own. The camp looked so barren with just Javier, Bill and Strauss still hanging around, and Micah still in the tent. 

Our little group was all ready to leave and after a lot of last minute hesitation, soon we couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. It was time to go. 

Jack, Abigail, and John boarded one wagon, while Susan, Arthur and I boarded the other. Lenny, Charles and Sadie mounted up on their horses and we stood motionless in the middle of camp, each holding our breaths as we waited for someone to make the first move. 

"Are you ready, sweetheart?" Arthur turned to me, his hands tight on the reins. I met his eyes, stared into the beautiful blue ocean that was his irises, and took a shaky breath. 

"I am, if you are," I nodded. 

"If you're with me, I'm ready for anything," he whispered, then snapped the reins. The horses got moving and the wheels turned, and I only looked back once at the sparse remains of the gang that once welcomed me with a blanket and kindness and songs sung around a campfire. At the people whose hearts were once full of warmth and hope now turned to icy stubbornness, a refusal to let go of what once was. 

Truth be told, I couldn't blame a single one of them, for I knew that part of me would never let go of it either, not fully. 

And as Micah Bell took his final breath lying upon the bed inside Dutch's tent, with the man he'd turned so sour against his own family still nowhere to be found; I could only hope that those that I once regarded as family of my own would see the light and find happiness in a world where they were more than just pieces of a weapon.

[hunidlo]

Call of Fire

CHAPTER 4 - The Stranger

Rating: M

Word Count: 3.5K

Pairing: The Mandalorian x F!Reader

Warnings: slow burn fic, language, a lot of angst and tension between the main protagonists

Summary: You don’t like him. At all. Simultaneously, he manages to aggravate you with his silence and terrify you when he decides to speak occasionally. Yet, in hyperspace you have some time to get to know your mysterious chauffeur a little bit more.

Previous Chapter  //  Masterlist  //  Next Chapter

***

You wake up to see the Mandalorian kneeling beside you, holding your shoulders and shaking you. He’s surprisingly gentle.

You’re lying on the floor and the last thing you remember is getting to the cockpit of the Mandalorian’s ship and him telling you to buckle up after the strange ship attacked you.

“Um, what happened?” You touch the sore spot on your head—the consequence of how you knocked yourself out when the laser blast hit the ship and threw you against the wall. “Ouch!” You sit up with your back against the cockpit wall. There’s a small bump on your head—a brand new addition to your collection of bruises and wounds from the day before—and you can tell that the split lip the bandit gave you is now bleeding again.

“You didn’t listen to me … that’s what happened,” the pile of beskar beside you says. “If you had strapped in—”

“Okay, okay …” You wonder how many times he has criticized you for something in the course of the past two hours. Three times? Four times? And now he’s getting on your nerves again. “What happened with the ship that was shooting at us?” you ask, trying to deviate from the topic of you disobeying his order.

“No longer a problem … shot it down,” he announces matter-of-factly. “How’s your head?” he continues, leaving you no time to ask more questions such as Who were they? or Why did they shoot at us?

“It’s fine,” you say. It’s spinning and my face hurts but it could be worse, is what you mean.

You look around the cockpit. You have only a very hazy memory of the last time you were on a starship—it was fifteen years ago just before your parents left you with the villagers on an unknown planet. It’s quiet, you think. For some reason you expected the ship to be louder. Stripes of white light are flashing behind the viewport. The phenomenon looks familiar and makes you assume you’re probably in hyperspace, meaning far away from the only place you remember calling your home.

When you turn your attention back to the Mandalorian, he seems to be studying your bruised face, his helmet cocked to the side a little. He is quiet, gradually making you more antsy, the longer he keeps glaring at you without moving or saying anything.

Just when you think you should say something to end the silence, a gloved hand comes up and towards your cheek. Your instincts tell you to jerk your head backwards to avoid his touch, partially afraid of it causing more pain to your beaten face, and partially taken by surprise of the unexpected intimacy of his movement.  

Immediately, you realise that he most probably didn’t mean any harm. But it’s too late now … 

Seeing your reaction, he clenches his hand into a fist and lowers it again to rest it on his thigh, bowing his head down.

Before you can open your mouth and say something he stands up and strolls away towards the ladder to the cargo hold.

“Are you taking me to Hoth?” you quickly ask after him.

He does not respond to you, swiftly slides down the ladder, leaving you alone in the cockpit, still sitting on the floor.

You wonder whether he always deals with uncomfortable situations by silence and solitude, and you eventually come to a conclusion that he most likely does. Apparently, expressing what he thinks or wants to do with words doesn’t come naturally to him as it does to you, and you realise that he probably spends most of the time by himself and isn’t used to talking to other living beings very often.

You get to your wobbly feet and follow him down the ladder. 

You feel an immense need to rest now.

Shit, your backpack!

Where did you leave your backpack? Ah, yes … your hideout behind the crates.

You sit on one of the crates, take the bottle of water from your backpack and drink like you have spent the last two days on a desert planet. 

The Mandalorian is cleaning his blaster at the workbench acting like he hasn’t noticed you joining him in the cargo hold. He sure does a great job ignoring you when he wants to. 

“So …,” you interrupt the insufferable silence, “how long until we get there?” Despite trying hard to hide it, you are still a bit scared of him and are not sure what his intentions with you are right now so you tread lightly, testing the waters first with a simple question.

“A day ... “ the Mandalorian starts after a beat.

Oh, that’s shorter than you—

“... to Navarro,” he finishes.

Wait, what?

“Navarro?” your voice is more pitched than you originally intended. “We should be going to Hoth?”

All sorts of questions are now emerging in your head like Why is he taking you to Nevarro? And what the hell is Nevarro?

He doesn’t say anything for a while, so you continue but decide not to deviate from your initial request. “My parents are rich, you know?” you lie, trying to negotiate with him—motivate him to give you what you want. Mandalorians are mercenaries and bounty hunters, right? So he would definitely not refuse an opportunity to gain some credits, you assume. “I’m sure they will be more than generous if you delivered me to Hoth as soon as possible.”

“We don’t have enough fuel to get to Hoth,” he says dryly without looking at you.

Evidently, your tactics are not working.

“But, we have a deal—”

“No, we haven’t.”

Oh, come on! You’re losing your patience again. 

“I need to get to Hoth!” You stand up and give him one of your infamous frowns as if being stubborn has so far got you anywhere with this indomitable metal oaf.

“Hoth was a week away from your planet. I need to refuel first,” he’s indifferent to both your demand and the way you just raised your voice at him. “Plus, the ship needs fixing, one of the engines suffered damage.”

Maybe he’s not making it up after all.

“Fine …,” you sigh in defeat and roll your eyes. You’ll go to Nevarro with him, let him fix the ship and then you can continue to Hoth. It’s not like you are in a hurry, right? You waited fifteen years, surely you can wait a couple more days. “… Where do I sleep?”

He doesn’t reply with words, just lazily waves his hand around the cargo hold. Take your pick, is how you read it.

Is he joking? He must be joking.

“There’s only one bed.” You assume it’s his, and you’re sure as hell the hand gesture wasn’t an invitation to his bunk. “Where’s the other one?” You quickly scan the hull again and see nothing resembling a second bunk. 

“Does it look like an inn here to you?” Only now does he turn his visor to look at you.

No, it surely does not, a venomous comeback runs through your head but you know better than to utter it out loud so you just sigh.

So he wasn’t joking, he’s gonna let you sleep on the floor of his dirty fucking ship. How rude. 

On the other hand, well … he’s sort of right. You don’t want to admit it but if you’re being honest … What were you expecting? Bed and breakfast and a bedtime story? Deep down you know you should be grateful that he hasn’t kicked you out of his ship yet. He lets you stay and eventually might even take you to your parents—although you are not so sure about the last part. After all, you yelled at him, threatened him with his own gun, and broke into his ship. Twice.

Then again … you are not going to admit it so yeah … he’s rude and you don’t like him one bit. 

He’s obviously fed up with the conversation and is about to leave for the cockpit but you don’t feel like being finished yet—

“I’m dirty,” you blurt out. 

Shit, that didn’t sound right … 

He stops in his tracks, turning his visor to rest his look on your face again. It seems you have caught his attention. You can almost sense him raise his eyebrows and smirk as he cocks his head.

“I mean … I need to take a shower and wash my clothes.”

The silence that comes after almost everything you say to him is maddening.

After a moment—when he’s finally done scrutinizing what you said—he simply points his finger towards the ‘fresher at the end of the hull.

“And-um …,” you mumble, looking at your toes now, “I don’t have anything else to wear so …”—you already suspect what you’ll get for an answer before the question leaves your lips—“I was thinking you could lend me some clothes until mine get dry?”

…

“Asshole,” you mutter when he’s halfway up the ladder having no decency to reply to you before he turns and leaves. He probably hears you but decides to pretend he hasn't.

Later in the ‘fresher, you frown at yourself in the mirror. Fuck! Your face is a mess, and so is your hair and clothes. The bruise on your face is starting to change its colour from purple to repulsive yellow, and opening your mouth is a challenge on its own due to the sharp pain shooting to your jaw every time you try. When you're finished inspecting your numerous wounds, one by one you detangle the twigs from your hair, then take off your muddy clothes and wash them in the washbasin.

The shower is definitely the highlight of this day. For a moment, you just relax and enjoy hot water running down your tired limbs and washing away the events of the past couple of days. Even if you doubt the feeling will last. 

Okay, now … soap.

You cautiously sniff the content of the bottle that you’ve found on a shelf in the shower, just to be sure you have the right thing. From what you’ve seen, it could well be some oil for the Mandalorian’s armour or whatnot. To your surprise, it smells fresh, masculine, and a little bit like forest. 

“That grumpy bastard sure smells nice under all that beskar,” you smirk to yourself as you pour a decent amount of soap in your palm.

But when you get off the shower … oh, no … 

… there’s only one towel—his. You haven’t thought of that before.

Well, desperate times, desperate measures.

***

You decide to hang your wet clothes in the cargo hold, hoping they would get dry soon. 

A dull thud comes from behind you, making you jump scare and turn around.

The Mandalorian is standing motionless under the ladder to the cockpit, his visor boring into you.

“What?” You cross your arms on your chest perfectly aware that you are currently wearing just your underwear and his towel wrapped around you. “I told you I had no spare clothes.” 

He doesn’t seem to be bothered with your reproving tone though. His visor moves awkwardly slowly, following your silhouette from your feet up to your face where his look lingers for a beat. Then, without a word, he passes by you to get to the workbench. 

After a moment of searching in the boxes on the top shelves, he shoots his hand backwards, clutching a black long-sleeve shirt.

"Cover yourself," he commands with his back turned to you. He sounds almost angry.

"Gladly," you snarl back and snatch the shirt from his hand.

You turn away from him to put the shirt on. It’s not quite as long as you’d like but it’s better than nothing—and it smells just like his soap—so you’re not going to complain about it. 

When you turn back—still not decided whether or not to thank him—you find yourself facing the blackened visor of his helmet. He’s close. How did he get this close without you noticing? In his hands, the Mandalorian is carrying two neatly folded blankets, a pillow, and some sort of ointment—most probably intended for your face. He extends his hands just a little, and the simple gesture—being the first pure expression of kindness so far—stuns you. Maybe he isn’t as hard-hearted as you initially thought.

He tilts the chin of the helmet to the side as if thinking hard about something. 

“Do I smell … Did you use my soap?” By the tone of his voice you can tell that the brief moment of softness has just ended and he’s back to being his usual cold pissed self again.

“Well, I didn’t have time to pack mine, did I?” You allow your mouth to get loose. “I like it though,” you smirk when he turns the visor to pierce you with his look again. “... smells good.”

The silent faceless look is still so hard to read for you. 

The hand by his side twitches and for a split second you think he’s going to reach for your face again.

You don't know why but this time, you would let him.

He doesn’t though. Instead, he turns and walks away from you, across the hull to his bunk. 

“You have something in your hair,” he says matter-of-factly as he’s clambering into his bed, before the hatch shuts behind him.

You stand there dumbfounded for a second before you reach in your hair … 

“Nice,” you exhale, pulling out a twig with leaves from your wet hair.

***

Zullu is standing in front of you.

“You’re special,” the voice echoes to you through the void.

There’s a shadowy figure behind her.

“Zullu!” you cry out. “Watch out!”

Zullu falls to the ground—motionless.

The same figure is now standing behind you. They extend their hand and lay it on your shoulder and shake you vigorously.

“No!” You jolt awake and sit up breathing heavily, looking at the Mandalorian who is crouching beside your makeshift bed represented by several crates that you pushed together and put a blanket on them.

His hand is still on your shoulder while your hand is currently squeezing his arm to the point that it’s definitely hurting you more than him.

“You were screaming from sleep,” he says when he sees your confusion and you both let go of each other. “... Woke me up,” he informs.

Perhaps, you’re still too emotional from seeing your best friend die in front of you again to think rationally but his rather innocent announcement bewilders you.

“I’m sorry, my nightmare disturbed your slumber,” you snarl, words dripping with sarcasm.

You can’t help it, for some reason you just wish to elicit a reaction from him, other than the usual silence—the omnipresent, insufferable, deafening silence which he evidently enjoys so much but has been driving you crazy. From the moment you first saw him, you just have to keep guessing what he’s thinking and feeling—and you’re done with him being this fucking enigma for you all the time.

However, he’s apparently not willing to give you the response you want because he just wordlessly climbs up to the cockpit—the loudest sound in the quiet hull being the angry thuds his boots make on the ladder rungs.

You sit on your bed—head in your hands—frustrated with your own irracional behaviour. 

You should probably go and apologize to him, you think, realising your overreaction was bloody stupid. Then again, maybe it will be wiser to let him cool down a bit before you try to approach him.

***

You can’t sleep.

It’s been a good two hours since the Mandalorian left the cargo hold in the middle of the night and you have been unable to fall asleep again.

Should you go after him? … What should you say? … What is he doing up there, anyway? goes through your head making it impossible for you to rest.

You finally get up and clamber into the cockpit. You carefully approach the Mandalorian who is sitting in the pilot’s chair. 

When you’re close enough, you notice that he’s resting his helmet on his shoulder—he’s sleeping.

He looks so peaceful now with his hands folded on his chest, his legs outstretched and crossed under the control panel. You wonder whether his neck hurts when he wakes up after sleeping in such a position with his helmet on.

God!—you realise—you haven’t seen him without his helmet. Actually, you haven’t seen him taking off any part of his armour. Zullu’s grandmother used to talk about the Mandalorian armour, but never said anything about who they were under their impenetrable gleaming beskar shells. That realisation makes you wonder what he looks like under the helmet.

Against your better judgement, you hesitantly wave your hand in front of his visor to make sure he’s passed out, take a deep breath—mustering all your courage—and start gingerly lifting his helmet.

You are able to lift it by mere inches before a hand shoots up and catches your wrist, keeping a tight grip on you almost painfully. You immediately let go of the hem of the helmet.

“What are you doing?” His voice is quiet, tone dead serious. If he wasn’t irritated before, there is no doubt he’s mad at you now.

Fuck. Fuck! You have overstepped, you’re sure of it.

His next movement is swift and sudden. Before you can come up with a reply or do basically anything, he’s towering above you and cornering you against the control panel. He’s so close that you can feel each of his furious heavy breaths as his chest plate presses periodically against your torso with every inhale he makes.

You gulp thickly, not daring to move a muscle. You got the reaction you so desperately wanted from him and now you regret ever irking him.

“Don’t ever do that again!” His voice is impossibly low and threatening.

This time, it’s you who doesn’t speak.

He quickly let’s go of your hand and backs up a little when he feels your body slightly flinch under his deadly stare and sees the glimpse of fear in your eyes.

You use this opportunity to rush from him as fast as you can, leaving him where he stands in the cockpit.

You would be able to hear the Mandalorian sigh if you weren’t trying so hard to push back a whimper as you climb down the ladder to the hull.

***

You slump into your bed and stay there until morning. 

You hate him. You should have never come to his ship. Each wave of remorse about leaving your village is choking you until you seriously consider paying someone to fly you back as soon as you get to Nevarro.

But … you can’t go back. Apart from not having enough credits, there is nothing waiting for you there. You need to keep going—find your parents and figure out how you were able to kill that bandit with just your mind. You have to do it for yourself, and for Zullu.

Interrupting your train of thought, the Mandalorian appears in the hull. He’s quiet. He approaches you and slowly lays a tray with something that looks like processed food in front of you without saying anything or looking at you.

Is … is this his weird way of apologizing?

He sits down on one of the crates in the hull in front of you, pulling out his rifle to clean it.

It is an apology, you realise. And you feel like it’s your turn now.

“I’m … I’m sorry.” Your voice is thin and almost inaudible. “I’m sorry, I snapped at you, and I’m sorry if I … offended you.”

He doesn’t look at you, just nods almost imperceptibly. “And I’m sorry if I hurt your hand,” he says eventually.

“It’s okay,” you say and rub your wrist. He didn’t really hurt you but you think it’s quite considerate of him to mention it.

“So what’s up with the helmet?” you hesitantly ask. “Don’t you ever take it off?”

“No.” 

“Why not?”

“This is the way,” he says simply.

“I … apologize, I didn’t know.” You didn’t. How could you? You never met a Mandalorian, you only heard the stories and Zullu’s grandmother never mentioned that they don’t show their faces.

“It’s fine. Just don’t try to take … don’t do that again.” he says quietly but definitely, and you somehow know you are not supposed to ask anymore.

You silently nod to let him know you understood. 

You eventually eat the food he has given you and watch him quietly tinker with his rifle.  

You still don’t like him but feel that somehow this brief conversation cleared the air between the two of you meaning you are finally able to relax a bit in his presence.

Neither of you say anything for the rest of the way to Nevarro.

The silence—however—doesn’t feel as thick and suffocating as it did before.

***

Previous Chapter  //  Masterlist  //  Next Chapter

[whathappenedtomyweekend]

It’s Just A Spark Ch.14 - Fools

"Good evening, everyone."

Scott's head snapped around at the chipper sound of his cousin's voice, just in time to witness Hiccup walk in, all bounce-y steps and wide grins, and drop his bag on his desk.

Gobber stopped, raising an eyebrow at his colleague over the rim of his mug.

"What're you all smiley for? I thought I'd given you the day off."

"My guess? He got lucky," Scott grinned and crossed his arms behind his neck.

Gobber clicked his tongue with a wave of his hand.

"Don't be stupid. If he'd done as much as kiss her we'd know."

The dark-haired man hummed in response and leaned forward to closely watch his cousin, who was getting progressively less smiley.

"Yeah, you're right. It'd be all over the news. 'Henry Haddock - source confirms Berk's most desired bachelor is going steady. Local singles outraged'."

Hiccup frowned, raising his hands.

"Okay, guys - can we please stop speculating about my love life?"

"Oh, so we're already talking love now, huh?" Snotlout smirked, resting his head on his hand, a smug smile playing on his lips.

Hiccup only groaned, rolling his eyes and turned away, muttering something under his breath.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said if you wanted the new Berk's issue cover story, you should've scheduled an interview."

Gobber barked out a laugh and gave Hiccup a well-meant slap on the back.

"Come on, boy, we're just messin' with ya."

Hiccup hesitated but then let out a short exhale, the dopey smile slowly stealing itself back on his lips.

"I know."

Scott grinned and nudged his shoulder.

"There he is! Now, come on, at least give us something! You can't just waltz in, all dopey and shit and then expect us to not want any info."

Hiccup shrugged, waving vaguely as if there was really not much to talk about, honestly (his tried-and-failed nonchalance was not bought for a second)

"Well-"

Her hands sinking into his hair - they're stumbling back into the apartment -

"If you MUST know-"

There is barely any space between them, and he doesn't think he wants there to be any-

"She stayed for the night - you know, because of the storm-"

She's wrapping her arms around him and buries her nose in his chest, and he wants to never let her go-

"A-and before she left, we, uh-"

They've stumbled backwards - his hands can't stop tracing her-

"We kissed."

Gobber's mouth hung wide open.

Snotlout let out a sound that resembled a mix between a strangled sob and a squeal.

Hiccup waited. A couple of moments passed. Then, finally, Gobber broke out into a whoop of laughter, and Hiccup was mentally preparing for the usual slap on the shoulder, but was instead pulled in a hug that he could have sworn was cracking a few of his ribs.

"Ha! I knew it! I knew it - you owe me ten, Snotlout-"

"-you bet on me again?"

"Yeah, well, it was a minor storm."

"Ho- how is that a justification?" Hiccup exclaimed and helplessly searched Snotlout's gaze.

But Scott Jorgenson was speechless.

This happened very - very - rarely. The last time Hiccup had seen him like this had been five years ago after they had pulled a feral, muddy and scared Hookfang out of a frozen creek.

"Scott?" he asked carefully, leaning closer to his cousin. "You okay?"

Snotlout was scrambling for words, helplessly opening and closing his mouth again, looking up at his cousin.

"I - I just didn't think you'd actually do it," he then got out, and to Hiccup's horror, his eyes were watering.

"Oh- God, Scott, I - wait, why is this such a big deal to you? I mean, we're a couple, it was official - I told you and you were completely okay."

His cousin's face crumpled up.

"What? You - you were a couple and you didn't tell me?"

"No, I - I did, I definitely did-" Hiccup stopped, his hands flying up to his hair. "Shit, I told Gobber. I didn't tell you."

"And you're asking me why I'm making such a big deal out of this?"

"Ooh my God, Scott, no, I-"

"Since when? Huh? How long have you been keeping this from me?"

"I wasn't - 3 days."

"Three da- oh wait, that's actually a lot less than I thought it'd be."

Snotlout stopped, looked at Hiccup and then shrugged, and his next words were completely levelled as if he hadn't just been yelling and on the brink of tears at being presented with the fact that his cousin had found love. "Yeah, that's chill."

Hiccup blinked.

"Wait - what?"

Snotlout shrugged again.

"Yah, it's fine. Three days is fine. Gobber once took a week to tell me he got Grump And a new arm design, so you're good."

Hiccup exhaled, relieved. "Okay, good."

He paused, frowned, turning back to Gobber, furrowing his brow.

"You didn't tell him about Grump?"

Gobber shrugged unassumingly.

"No, but seriously," Snot grinned and nudged Hiccup's shoulder. "I'm really happy for you."

Hiccup grinned back at him. "Thanks."

"But don't think that means you're getting out of telling me everything that happened!"

"Yeah, no, I know."

__________________________________________________

Hiccup's words were still ringing in her head. 'Take a step back. Clear your head.'

So she went out for a run. The memory of his lips still burning on hers. Every breath she drew was burning, and her legs felt like they'd give way under her, but Astrid couldn't stop grinning to herself.

Something led her past the fire department, and it was either her heart or her memory, but it was hard trying to bite down her smile, so she gave up and grinned at the ground under her.

His heart had beaten so loud she'd heard.

Astrid remembered the dream she'd had a few weeks back, and she couldn't help but think how that hadn't even gone close to comparing to the real thing. Hiccup's calloused fingers seemed to have left invisible imprints on her skin, and heat rushed to her cheeks as she imagined them ghost over the same trail again, his mouth following his hands.

Astrid came to a sudden halt, leaning against a facade, trying to catch her breath. She screwed her eyes shut and dragged her hands over her burning face, trying to chase the previous thoughts out of her mind.

It turned out that it was downright impossible not to think of - memories of stepping on each other's feet and desperately trying to get closer were as present to her as the wall she was leaning against.

Astrid remembered wishing for fourth, fifth glances, get to know him past his jokes and easy smiles - she thought of him that night, sitting with his leg pulled up, fingers trembling over the fabric. The look in his eyes that was begging her to both to watch and look away.

She'd looked at him and realised that he had never really tried to hide anything with his jokes - but that this Hiccup, right now, was letting her know that there were things in his life that were real and that were painful . He had looked at her and apologised.

A part of her wanted him to know that she was willing to share and ease his pain; another part of her desperately needed him to know that there was nothing to be ashamed of. But she also knew that he needed time to grow comfortable with that idea. And she was willing to wait, however long it took.

By the time Astrid got back home, it was already dark outside. She dropped her keys on her bedside table and quickly checked on Stormfly, who was already asleep, before she toddled into the kitchen, turned on her computer, put on the kettle and opened the fridge, where the only things remotely resembling a meal were a slightly wrinkley paprika and a container with some fruit salad. Usually, she would have at least sighed and closed the door again, only to open it up a few seconds later to check if anything had magically changed - but today, on this particularily unordinary day, she shrugged and opened up the container.

So she sat and ate, in silence.

Astrid had no problem with being alone. In fact, she even enjoyed it. Usually. But again, today, on this particularily unordinary day, she had a problem with eating alone. Specifically, eating without Hiccup.

She wondered how she'd got so used to spending time with him so quickly. All she knew right now was that doing the dishes after finishing this fruit salad would be a drag again, maybe just because they weren't doing them together. A smile bubbled up inside her chest at the thought of yesterday, and she bit her lip, trying not to think about how he'd kept throwing little glances at her anytime he'd handed her a dish, their fingers sometimes brushing, in fear she'd miss it too much now if she did.

But she already had, and now she did miss it. Astrid sighed and put down her fork.

____________________________________________________________

The steady tapping of her fingers on the keyboard was interrupted by a sudden rap on the door, before a key turned in the lock and she heard the door open -

"Put on your pants, we're having dinner!" Ruffnut Thorsten declared from in the middle of her kitchen, shoes and all.

Astrid blinked and looked up from her screen.

"We are?"

"Yup!" Ruff confirmed, grinning brightly at her friend. "Come on, grab your keys, wallet, I booked us a table."

"What, right now?"

"Well - yeah. But first," Ruff grinned and plopped down in Astrid's place when she got up and walked over to the kitchen counter. "I wanna see how you're getting on with this."

Astrid shrugged and handed her friend a mug of coffee - two spoonful sugar and so much milk it was an offense to everything Astrid stood for - and sat down again, curling her legs under her.

They sat in silence for a while, and Ruff took a sip of her abominable coffee choice (Astrid's words, not hers) and remarked calmly, "So, I don't know if this is intentional, but it says here under personal skills 'kissing Hiccup', and, uh, you might wanna give that one a second thought, sis."

Astrid choked on her coffee, slamming the mug down on the table.

"What."

"Well, it says -"

"I wrote that?"

Ruff hesitated, her eyes scanning her screen. Suddenly her face went uncharacteristically slack with surprise. "That's … not the only thing you wrote."

"Wh- let me see."

Astrid scrambled to her feet and grabbed the laptop's screen, pulling it closer.

Stumbling back against the wall … couldn't stop smiling … his hands …

With every passing sentence Astrid's expression grew a bit more horrfied. For a blurry moment she wasn't even sure what her mind had made up and what had really happened yesterday.

There was a moment of silence after they had both finished reading.

Ruff clapped her hands and rubbed them together, her voice almost cheerful when she spoke.

"Well, at least nobody will ever read that, right?"

Astrid looked at her, completely mortified.

"You just did!"

"Shut up, as if i count."

___________________________________________________

"So?"

Hiccup stopped and waited for Scott to catch up with him, keys already in hand, and chuckled. "So what?"

Scott had convinced him to change shifts at the same time, so now Hiccup stood in the department's drive way, waiting for his cousin to finish up. It was a clear, calm and starry night - not a single reminder left of the passed storm.

"So," Scott stressed, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket as they picked up a leusurely pace. "How do you feel? About all of this. Yesterday, I mean."

Hiccup stopped short, having expected another prod for 'details' from his cousin.

But, to his surprise, Snotlout was watching him with an earnest expression. So he hesitated for a few moments, not sure what to say.

Snotlout went on, "'Cause, listen. I - I mean, we both know you've never had - well. Something like this - but let's be honest, you're a bit of a sap. I know you, so you're probably completely head over heels, but … is she serious about this? As serious as you are, I mean?" At his cousin's expression he quickly raised his hands. "I just don't want you to get hurt. I care about you, man. I want this to work out for you."

It was in this moment, and maybe it was the fact that they were out on this particularily starry night, or that Scott's expression and voice were so soft and concerned it was impossible to think that there had ever been any animosity between them years back from now, or that at the thought of yesterday he felt an intense wave of serenity wash over him - it was in this moment, that Hiccup realised that there was a word for what he was feeling.

"I'm in love," he whispered into the darkness, and Snotlout stopped walking, and the words were so easy they chased a smile to his lips. "I think I'm in love with her, Snot."

It was for the second time today that Scott Jorgenson was rendered scrambling for words.

So Hiccup continued walking and gave his words some more room. "I've been living in this flat for almost five years now, Scott. And I don't know, maybe it's the job or the amount of hours I spend talking to my cat each day, but every time she's in my apartment it feels like I'm finally home. Like I've stopped searching," Hiccup paused for a second, then he grinned. "And honestly? Fuck sleeping alone."

Snotlout couldn't help but snort at that, making Hiccup's grin widen as he grabbed his arm and leaned against him, making both of them stumble. "There he is."

Scott laughed and pushed him off, stumbling onto the empty street.

"I knew it! You sappy fool! And you didn't tell me earlier!"

"If love be blind, it best agrees with night," Hiccup chipped swiftly, and quickly ducked away from his laughing cousin's arm.

"You know I don't get your Shakespeare references!"

"That's why I make them," Hiccup grinned and pulled Snotlout back onto the pavement.

"No, dude, but seriously," Snotlout's expression was serious again. "This isn't one-sided, is it? Emotion-wise?"

Hiccup raised an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

"Well," Snotlout shrugged. "Are you sure she's feeling the same for you? Or at least to some degree?"

Hiccup paused for a moment.

Her hands are open on the table, calm, relaxed. 'That's good. 'Cause you've caught mine, too.

'It's good to see you.'-

Her voice is still trembling, but she's smiling as she presses her lips to his cheek-

"And this is for ... everything else."-

Her voice is the first thing he hears that morning. 'I've missed you,' she confesses and he's redefining his own meaning of the word.

He looks up, and the sun's coming up, and she's out of breath but still breathtaking- 'You okay?'

The plank bed is bending violently and she leans into him - "I'd rather be here and spend the night with you than going back."

They're already back inside and he's fiddling with the radio, so maybe she thinks he doesn't notice the expression on her face, but then he looks up and she's smiling even wider-

She wraps her arms around him and he can feel her grin against his chest-

"You're not staying?"-

She's comforting Toothless, he feels himself dozing off, her calm voice surrounding him, and he can feel her drape the blanket over his shoulders-He's trembling, and he's wishing he wasn't, but then there she's taking his hand, "Let it be ugly"-

-Then he's holding her, or maybe she's holding him, and he can feel her heartbeat, and it's as erratic as his own-

"Hiccup Haddock, I can't even begin to tell you how much I'd like that."

Hiccup looked at his cousin and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I am."

[seven-homosexual-dinosaurs]

Don’t let me go

Chapter 5: Some feels and shit

Chapter 4  Chapter 3  Chapter 2  Chapter 1

The door opened to reveal a tall, dark woman. Whilst she was slightly taller than crow, Cathy was still taller than her. Her curly hair landed on her shoulders, spread evenly across her shoulders rather than swept to one side like Cathy’s.

“Hello, how can I help-”

Her eyes landed on Cathy.

“-you....”

Both women stared at each other, each frozen in shock. Crow looked from Cathy to Lina, attempting to decipher their expressions. Lina wore a blank expression, eyes widened in shock. Cathy bit her bottom lip nervously, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. It suddenly occurred to crow how odd the two must look, with their muddy (and slightly bloody in Cathy’s case) uniforms and their strange scars. Crow tugged on a strand of her hair nervously, sweating at the growing tension.

Finally, crow spoke up.

“Erm, are you Lina?”

Lina nodded blankly, eyes fixed firmly on Cathy.

“Okay. Um, I’m crow, and this is-”

“-Catherine,” Lina finished breathlessly. Cathy looked up from the ground, eyes shining with tears.

“Hi Lina,”

Lina launched herself at Cathy, who stumbled backwards in surprise. Crow tensed, ready for combat, before realizing they were hugging. Lina wept openly into Cathy’s arms, who pat her back numbly as thick tears ran down her face. Crow stood to the side awkwardly as sobs filled the air, awkwardly looking into the distance. Finally, Lina spoke up through her heaving sobs.

“Catherine Parr, where on earth have you been!?”

Her voice lacked any sort of conviction or anger, too heavy with relief to seem cross.

Cathy sniffled, burying her face into Lina’s chest.

“It’s a long story,”

The two sat there in silence, muffled sobs filling the air as they held each other tightly. The sun set behind the cottage, illuminating the group with it’s pink-blue hues. As the wind picked up, dust began moving through the air. Rubbing her eyes, crow sneezed as a gust of wind blew into her face. Jolting up, Lina looked at crow as if seeing her for the first time.

“Oh-uh, where are my manners? I’m Catalina,” She rubbed the redness from her eyes, not quite succeeding in composing herself, not that crow would ever bring it up.

“Crow,” she nodded politely, shifting her weight awkwardly. Catalina and Cathy stood up reluctantly, still holding each other tightly. The two headed towards the cottage, Catalina ushering them all inside.

Stepping inside, Catalina led the girls towards a small room, a birch table surrounded by four chairs sat in the center. Crow looked around the room, observing the paintings and writings littering the wall. Stepping towards a crinkled piece of paper lying on the counter, crow smiled at the name scrawled messily on the corner.

“Cath, you wrote this?”

Cathy looked towards the paper, groaning in embarrassment as she realized what crow was referring to.

“Ugh, yeah. It’s a story I wrote when I was small. You can read it if you want, just don’t expect it to be any good,”

Catalina rolled her eyes fondly, pulling up a chair as she sat down.

“Well I think it’s plenty good. You two should probably sit down, I’ve got the feeling we’ve got a lot to talk about,”

If anyone noticed the tear stains littering the page, no one mentioned it.

As the two sat down, the door creaked open in the other room. Cathy and crow both jumped, while Catalina’s eyes lit up.

“I’m home! Kitty’s eating with Anna today, so we don’t have to wait for her,”

As Catalina moved to greet the voice, crow felt her entire body tense. The voice sounded..... familiar? But, she reasoned, that would be impossible. How would she recognize the voice if the researchers never spoke and her memories of before were gone? Unless-

Her train of thought was interrupted as Catalina reentered the room, followed by the voice’s owner.

“I- you’ve gotta see this Jane,”

As Jane entered the room, she froze as her eyes landed on the girls.

But she wasn’t looking at Cathy.

Her eyes rested solely on crow, who felt unable to look away as the two stared at each other. Blond hair fell past her shoulders, resting near her lower back. Although she couldn’t be past her mid-twenties, there was a certain fatigue to her eyes that gave her an older look. Her figure, short and plump, was frozen in shock as the women stared each other down. 

Finally, she spoke up.

“....Anne?”

Crow felt dizzy. Anne. That name was familiar. But from where? Was that her name? Did she know this woman? But from where? Who was this woman to her? A friend? Family? A peer? Clutching Cathy for support, crow (or was it Anne?) forced herself to meet Jane’s eyes.

“.....do I know you?”

Crow flinched at the harshness of her words, mentally kicking herself. As silence enveloped the room, Cathy spoke up.

“....I think we all need to talk,”

------------------------------

Sat at the table, the four stared at each other warily. Cathy gripped crow’s hand tightly under the table, though crow couldn’t tell if she was doing more for herself or crow. Catalina tapped her fingers awkwardly on her table, the sound resonating through the room. Jane’s eyes rested firmly on crow, who soundly avoided her eyes. Sitting up, Catalina cleared her throat awkwardly. 

“So, while there’s definitely a lot to talk about here, I think first thing’s first. Where have you two been these past few years?”

The question wasn’t asked harshly, rather, it was spoken gently but firmly, leaving no room for dodging the question.

“Well we-”

“You see, I-”

Cathy and crow both looked at each other, erupting into a fit of giggles. Catalina rolled her eyes good naturedly as Jane smiled fondly at the two. As their giggles died down, crow motioned for Cathy to continue.

“Well, we- first of all don’t freak out-”

Catalina and Jane both raised their eyebrows.

“We- we were kind of in- um- a human experimentation facility?”

A horrified silence followed her declaration. Cathy and crow both glanced at each anxiously as Jane and Catalina both stared at them blankly, processing the new information. As Jane’s mouth opened, Cathy hurriedly continued.

“I got there a bit after crow, and we kinda became friends? Well, as friendly as we could get with giant panes of glass between us. Anyways, crow stole a key card off of one of the security guards and used it to get us out. We managed to get our bearings and made our way to Shidgherd before finding our way over here.”

Ignoring the horrified looks the older women gave them, crow spoke up.

“I don’t have any memories of anything before the facility and Cathy thought calling me “G-2″ would be depressing, so we settled on calling me crow, “ 

As she finished, a single tear rolled down Jane’s face as Catalina’s hand raised to her mouth in horror. As Jane hurriedly wiped her eyes, crow felt a jolt of guilt run through her.

You made her cry

Crow’s mind buzzed as she attempted to make the woman feel better. While she wasn’t sure how she knew the woman, she knew seeing her sad made her sad.

“Jane, right? You knew me before?” 

Jane nodded quietly, a pained expression on her face.

“Could you maybe tell me about that?”

Jane nodded once more, inhaling shakily.

“Right, so, I don’t suppose you remember Kitty? Yeah, I guess not. So-um-,”

Jane cleared her throat awkwardly.

“You used to live with me and our younger cousin Kitty before you were taken. We were all cousins with bad families, so we ran away together. You were four, Kitty was two, and I was fifteen when we ran away. You were both so small, but there was a certain.... incident... in the family, and I needed to get you two away from your parents,”

Jane didn’t elaborate and Anne felt too afraid to ask.

“I had to do some work for some.... not too great people to support us. When you were seven, one of my bosses came to talk to me. I knew the conversation might go south, so I told you and Kitty to play outside while we talked. I managed to convince him not to fire me, but when I went outside to get you and Kitty- she-”

Jane was openly sobbing now, taking in deep, heaving breaths in an attempt to steady herself. Catalina placed her hand on Jane’s reassuringly.

“I went out to get you two, except you were gone and Kitty was in hysterics saying someone took you and begging me to bring you back. I managed to make out that someone came up to you two and asked Kitty to come with him. After she kept on refusing, he tried to take her by force. You got him to leave her alone by offering to go with him instead, and told Kitty to wait for me and then left with him. I- I thought you were dead,”

Jane finished with a sob, hugging herself tightly with her arms. Anne stared at her blankly, processing the information. Anne stood up abruptly, her chair falling the the ground behind her with a clatter. 

“I- I need some time to think,”

The three women stared as she sprinted out of the room, the sound of the door slamming shortly following. Catalina wordlessly followed, leaving Cathy with the sobbing Jane.

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone

A Tyler Rake/Established Female OC fic

Summary: A lot changes in five years. Now a family of nine, the Rakes are splitting their time between Australia and New York City. With Dhaka nothing but a distant yet still painful memory and the dirty work mostly behind him, Tyler is healthy and thriving. Not only as a husband and father, but as the acting founder and boss of his own mercenary business and co-owner of his wife's well loved and flourishing bookstore. But while love and domestic happiness abound, the past and its secrets are never far behind.

Huge thanks and tons of love to @tragiclyhip​ for never letting me give up! It’s thanks to her I ever actually finished off the last fic, or started this one.  And she also made my incredible banner! <3 <3 <3

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @tragiclyhip​

Prologue

FIVE YEARS LATER

******

The stand sits fifteen feet above ground and wraps halfway around the gnarled and twisted trunk of a centuries old Kapok tree. No hunter has made use of it in years; the stairs leading upwards weakened by harsh weather and neglect, wood cracking and bowing under the soles of well worn combat boots. Despite the added weight of gear and a kevlar utility vest, long legs and a wide stride make it easy to navigate the missing steps. His movements are purposeful and quiet; careful to avoid even the slightest snap of a twig or the rustle of dried and fallen leaves or the scratch of dirt and pebbles against the pitted and fragile wood. Any sound is a detriment in this environment; the lush and dense landscape so eerily still and silent that even a hint of noise would seem deafening. The slightest of movement has the potential to stir up the wildlife, which in turn would draw unwanted attention upwards from the banks of the Mekong River.

Even under the thick and expansive umbrella of the forest the heat is stifling. Humidity oppressive and choking. A thin layer of sweat gathers on his brow; errants droplets burning his eyes and gathering on the ends of his lashes. His shirt -long sleeved to not only provide cover in the jungle but protect from scrapes and cuts and the burn of the sun- nearly soaked right through; darkened patches under the arms and at the small of the back, the fabric clinging to dampened and slick skin. Fine beads settle around his mouth, and when he drops into a crouch at the top of the stand, he swipes his tongue over his top lip in an effort to clear away the sweat. It had been an hour hike through the jungle; moving swiftly and silently as he listened to directions being given through a transmitter he sports in his left ear. It’s sweltering and he’s thirsty; head pounding and his hands begin to tremble as the beginning stages of dehydration begin to settle in. He takes the time to remedy the situation. Shrugging off the rucksack slung over his left shoulder and dropping it onto the floor of the stand; hands shaking yet able to tear open the zipper. There’s two bottles of water packed in amongst the gear; extra pairs of socks in case of treks through swamps and marshes, two full clips of ammo that will only be used if someone on the other side is able to pinpoint his location and launch a full scale and fully armed search.

He hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Downing half a bottle of water, he uses the remains to cool himself down; splashing a handful of the liquid against his face and then dumping the rest over his head. Ten years ago, the elements wouldn’t have bothered him as much; he would have been thirty seven years old and still in relatively good shape. Physically AND mentally. And despite a consistent and punishing routine of heavy lifting, core training, and cardio, he’s definitely feeling the effects of both age and decades of hard and often dangerous living. Knees stiff and aching from the brisk hike over rough terrain and then through mud and thick brush; the arthritis that takes up residence in the small of his back and the right hip making its presence known. He’ll be sore tomorrow; every step he takes will send pain shooting through him, and for the next week he’ll wonder just why the hell he ever said ‘yes’ in the first place. Each stiff movement and slow step and aching muscle will remind him of just how things HAVE changed over the years. Gone are the days when he could skip a few days sleep; able to function on both little rest and minuscule amounts of food and drink. There’s no way he’d be able to do THAT now; push his body to the limits he’d been testing for so long. That man no longer exists. The one that would take the most dangerous and unpredictable jobs in hopes of catching a bullet. Who’d almost pray, beg and plead each and every time he went out that it would be his last; one sniper’s shot away from finally being put out of his miserable existence.

Things changed, of course. When he’d been least expecting them to. There’s way too much to lose now. It’s why every decision he makes now...every movement...matters so much. Even the smallest of mistakes can change the course of the future; one misstep potentially blowing his cover and leading to his untimely -and likely extremely brutal and bloody- demise. An hour away a helicopter waits for him; on standby to whisk him back to Vietnam and that little ‘hole in the wall’ hotel he’d been staying in. A quick shower and he’d back in the air; rushed to the nearest backwoods airport where a private jet would take him home. It’s been four days now; two spent in the planning stages before his first ‘hit’ in Laos and then the trek to Cambodia. Two for the price of one, Anil had said, although money matters very little now. These kinds of gigs are more a service; wiping out the dregs of society more of a gift to humanity than anything else.

He normally doesn’t take on jobs. A total of three in the past five years. This is the fourth AND fifth. The skills and the mindset quickly and effortlessly returning, the first kill a lot easier than he’d thought it would be. It’s like riding a bike; once the gun is in your hand and you’re peering through that scope, your finger easily finds and pulls the trigger. And this job had been impossible to turn down; the dirty and vile details hitting home and preying on his ‘human side’. Anyone in his position as a husband and father would have been enraged and disgusted. Drug runners and weapons smugglers that moonlight in abusing and torturing their wives and exploiting children. Sometimes even their own. People that evil don’t deserve to live; even a bullet between the eyes considered too kind. But it’s all he has time for. No ‘face to face’ meetings. He can’t be seen or even identified by name in order to protect his OWN family. He has to remain a ghost. An urban legend of sorts. Talked and gossiped about in drug circles and even among the local police and military who’d either been paid off by the criminals or had been hopeless and hapless when it came to stopping the activity. Nothing will be known about him. No glimpse of his appearance, no chance to hear his voice or even know his name. He’ll be known for just those ‘lucky shots’ he’d gotten in. Turned in to nothing more than rumours and speculation that will continue spreading long after he’s gone.

***

“T...you there?” Yaz’ voice through the earpiece. The reception is spotty; words broken up by heavy static.

He uses a forearm to wipe the mixture of water and sweat from his face, then lays a finger against the transmitter clipped to his vest. “I’m here.”

“Hot out there today, isn’t it.”

He smirks, then begins pulling pieces of a semi automatic rifle from the confines of the rucksack; hands moving quickly and efficiently as they snap and twist the weapon together. “I don’t want to hear your bitching. You’ve got air conditioning. I’m the one out in this shit.” His voice is low and quiet as he speaks. Even the smallest of sounds can travel great distances; echoing through the jungle and making its way down to the banks of the Mekong.

The river sits fifty yards to the south; muddy and heavily polluted and dotted with boats belonging to local fisherman. One vessel stands out from the crowd. A large and expensive houseboat; the chrome that lines the powerful motor and makes up the railings on the top deck sparkling in the sunlight. His mark is inside; meeting with some of Anil’s people acting under the guise of weapons buyers. When the time is right, the man in question will be led out onto the bottom deck and he’ll have one shot to get the job done. It’s another reason Anil had personally sought him out; his marksmanship impeccable, no other employee coming close to possessing that level of skill.

“You good?” Yaz inquires.

“Yeah…” he snaps the magazine in place and then switches off the safety. “...I’m good.”

“I’ll let you know when there’s movement. Going silent for now.”

He tears off the lid of the second bottle of water and takes a single sip before setting it down; using his sleeve to wipe both the opening and every side of the plastic. He can’t leave any trace of himself behind. Not a drop of sweat or a hint of saliva or his fingerprints. He’ll wipe the stand down before he leaves; methodically cleaning anything he may have come in contact with. IF his location is discovered, money talks. Anyone remotely related to his mark will pay to get answers, and the police will take what’s offered and collect every shred of possible evidence. He can’t take that chance. A single, unattached person may not care. Had he still been the guy living in the rundown and beaten up shack in the outback, he wouldn’t have thought twice about covering his tracks. But lives depend on him. A wife and seven beautiful little humans that count on him to protect them and keep them safe.

He CAN’T fuck this up.

Up in the stand he’s well hidden; camouflaged by the abundance of thick, lush greenery. It’ll be a tough shot through twisted and tangled branches; not even a foot of clearance between wood and leaves. Depending on exactly where his mark is led, he’ll compensate for that; pulling to the right or left in order to prevent the bullet from getting too ‘dirty’. He’s made tougher shots; mostly in his SASR days. And there’s no doubt he’ll make this one.

He bunches up the ruck sack and places it near the edge of the stand, facing the river. He’ll use it as both a ledge and a form of cushioning; balancing the long barrel of the rifle will provide stability and muffle the sound of the shot, disguising where it had originated from. He winces as he gingerly lowers himself onto his stomach; the cracking in his hip and the soreness in both knee and shoulder reminding him that he’s not as young as he used to be. Forty-seven is ancient in mercenary years. Most never make it that far. The odd few get to retire peacefully, but the majority are taken out by a bullet; one too many lapses in judgment and the smallest of errors leading to their deaths.

But most never get to have what he does either. A normal life with a family that loves him ; thousands of miles away, anxiously awaiting his return. It’s why he’s so careful; every decision he makes and every action he takes is done with them at the forefront of his mind. And he thinks about them now; warm and safe in the confines of a townhome in New York City. Four days ago they’d travelled from Australia and he’d promised to meet up with them as soon as the job was finished. It’s their third Christmas there; an eight bedroom brownstone in Gramercy Park. The kids especially enjoy spending the holidays there. Quickly falling in love with the idea of a white Christmas and enjoying all of the outdoor activities; sledding and skating and seeing the tree at Rockefeller Centre and visiting Santa and the reindeer in Central Park. And while life in the Big Apple had never appealed to him, the draw of Gramercy had been impossible to resist. Quiet and quaint; tree lined streets and a private park and neighbours that mind their own business and don’t ask too many questions. He’d initially worried about standing out like a sore thumb; tanned skinned and the array of tattoos and scars and the ‘Down Under’ accent. It turned out to be everything he HADN'T expected. The feeling of small town life within an enormous city.

The back of his hand swipes at the locusts and mosquitos that hover close to his face; their buzzing and humming both tickling and irritating his ears. The right isn’t as good as it used to be; hearing slightly muted and distorted thanks to years of both firing and coming in close contact with weapons. It’s another drawback to getting old. Along with his eyesight. Needing glasses to read or to spend anytime staring at a computer screen.

“They’re on the move.”

He blinks sweat from his eyes and wipes his lips and chin on the sleeve of his shirt. Then he settles in; bending his left leg at the knee and wriggling his stomach against the wood beneath him. The latter is mind over matter; as if the simple movement and the way he presses the toes of boots against the stand will improve both shot and stability. His finger hovers over the trigger; other hand lightly supporting the barrel of the gun, allowing the rucksack to bear the majority of the weight. Anil’s people come out first; identified by the tan linen suits he’d been told they’d be sporting. The ‘Mark’ is a middle aged man, clad in casual attire; olive green cargo shorts and a simple white golf shirt. He’s short and stocky with greying hair and a noticeable limp; a run in with a rival drug crew years ago resulting in the amputation of his leg and the acquisition of a prosthetic device.

His jaw clenches and his lips settle into a thin, pursed line. His heart hammers in his chest and both his shoulders and his chest tighten. It’s adrenaline. That unmistakable rush that comes before an imminent strike. He remembers it well. And it’s both surprising and disheartening how much he’s actually missed it.

As they chatter and laugh, one of Anil’s men places a hand on the Mark’s back and ever so slightly turns the other man in Tyler’s direction. It’s all he needs; just enough of the Mark’s forehead to ensure a ‘kill shot’. And he takes it; the sound slightly muffled but still deafening as it echoes through the jungle and stirs birds from their perches and wildlife from the safety of their nests and dens. The bullet easily tears through layers of leaves and bypasses branches; finding its target and sending the Mark sprawling backwards and then down into a pool of brain matter, fragments of skull, and quickly spreading blood.

“Target’s down.”

The words are simple. To the point. And as chaos erupts down by the river, he calmly begins his retreat; pushing himself up onto his feet and slinging the rifle over his shoulder. There’s no pressing need or rush; Anil’s people have made their quick escape and the screams and shouts are coming from startled fisherman and colleagues of the Mark that had been inside the houseboat. He has time; methodically cleaning every inch of both the stand and the stairs and making sure he’s left nothing behind.

“I’m heading back,” he says, shouldering the ruck sack and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s suddenly anxious to get on his way; feeling the relief that sets in as he begins his hour long trek.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Not from the success of the mission or the satisfaction that comes with ridding the world of yet another monster. It’s one of happiness. One of peace.

The realization that each step he takes brings him closer to home.

[oh-theres-a-woman]

War Melodies on the Gramophone

A/N: Once more, the attention on my stories are greatly appreciated and bring fullness to my heart. Today, I give you another story. Maybe one more tonight if I’m feeling inspired enough. This one is set before the time of season one, in the beginning, then finishes at the start of season two. Please feel free to share, comment or request something else. Much love! xxx

Taglist: @zodiyack​ , @itsfrancisneptun​ , @shelbys-we-get-the-job-done​ & @fandom-fucking-shit​

Pairing: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby X Female Reader

Word Count: 1733

Edit: PART 2 is available now! Enjoy everyone. Thank you for all the love! It really means the world and so much more.

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You were a combat nurse on the Western Front, through the muddy earth that was mixed so heavily with blood. Time was spent patching up the boy’s and broken men to be blown back to hell once more. Shooing them away to meet the bullets and fire of the enemy. Ones that were too far gone were buried or sent home to your mother England. 

How you longed to see the homeland once more, to be away from the thick smell of death, blood, rot and mud. To sleep a full night without being awoken by the shaking earth. When shells hit. Cries and wailing men who longed to be home like yourself. If one ever thought that war brought glory again, you’d daringly and happily throw them in the cot to drown. This war had already reaped too much to bestow glory and make one enjoy the angst and grief felt. 

You stood outside on one of your rare breaks, lighting a cigarette. Prescribed by yourself for the clear nerves and torment that was suffered here. It was at that point you didn’t quite know what the white apron looked like anymore. So stained with blood and no matter how much you tried to wash it. Forever the bloody thing seemed stained an awful shade between red and pink. Hands quaked as you held your stick, inhaling taking in a momentary taste of nicotine instead of the dense air. Flicking ash off onto the sodding earth, where your eyes wandered out to the men that were working away carrying wounded up to the field hospital. 

“How bad are they today, boys?” You asked on approach, tucking the fast-burning cigarette with no filter between sore chapped lips. Wisps of your hair bellowed around your face in the cool winds. Whipping the scent of strong sulphur into your nostrils. Making them burn more than they did with the smoke. 

“Pretty bad, [y/n].” Said one of the lads guiding men into tents to be seen. What was one to expect? That they had been less torn than others? It seemed no longer hope to see men in one piece. Accustomed to the horrors of the lame, limbless and insane. Every day was another picture printed in your memory saying otherwise. 

Snubbing out the cigarette out with the heel of your boot. You watched as the embers tried to dart outward but were suffocated by the mud. That mud suffocated everything, even yourself… 

Stepping back into the tent, your eyes wandered to the bodies laid out on beds. Nurses and doctors hurrying around making this expendable. Every effort to save a life meant something. Thrown back into the line of rapid work. You didn’t even notice how the tent dulled the sound of everything going on outside.

You were stationed in the bed of another English man. Working on the shot wound in his chest. Removing the piece of metal from him with excellent care. Honestly, it was a wonder what your little hands could do when they stopped shaking and got to work. He was a tunneler by the way he was dressed and how dirt, not mud, clung to his body. “What’s your name, soldier?” You asked in a country accent telling the man you hailed near his birthplace of Birmingham. 

“Thomas, Thomas Shelby.” He commented in a weak voice, it was dry and rough. Like a voice after having a few too many cigarettes or held up in a state of grief. You knew there was certainly enough of them both here. “What’s yours?” He asked as you began to clean the wound that had been inflicted on the flesh of the man’s physical body.  Moments in these, people would normally say a prayer muttering that his spiritual form won’t be maimed and infection wouldn’t take root and rot his soul. However, spiritually be damned in your eyes.

It had caused too much pain and hurt to believe in a place like this. Surely the man below you didn’t believe either. It was too hard to believe in them all. All of you were going to meet a grim end or be taken prisoner, that’s what you thought. A lot of little boys playing soldier and big boy heroes were going to be left broken and shaken. A scar on the generation and age of which you come from. Likewise. You’d go home broken if you did at all. 

Lulled back into the context of the conversation, but the man’s dry smoker’s cough. You looked into his crystal blue eyes and then spoke. “Miss [y/n], a pleasure to meet you, Mister Shelby.” You did speak honestly, it was always nice to meet the soldiers, just a pity in what manner of meeting them. The pains they must suffer to be bought into the off-white field hospital tent. Carefully, slipping a tablet under the man’s tongue. “That’s for the pain, we’ll have you patched up in a jiffy, I promise.” You told him calmly. He only weakly gave a nod then grunted in pain. 

Delicate fingers and tools finally released the bullet, tossing it onto a tray. Then working quickly on the mend. Cleaning thoroughly, and stitching the wound. Pressing the area to stop the final bleed. You left him to rest for a time before they sent the officer away in need to the bed again. No one seemed to have the luxury of resting too long in a war. Instead, you made your mind up to watch over the man and make sure that the wound was healing. 

Often climbing down the deep pits of the tunnels, you met with a lot of the men down there. Checking on their wounds and health. Doing the assessment in rare sparing time. It made a bond grow between you and the Birmingham man known as Tommy or Tom by friends. He gave you a pet name too. It was sweet and made you feel somewhat more alive in the fuss and pain. Seeing the tunnelers began to be something you itched for every day. A breakaway from the noise-cancelling tent or the sulphur thick air above ground. To be hidden down in the humid tunnels underground. Talking with men, making sure all was well. 

At war’s end, you stood with many young women and men. Watching as the last of the bullets were fired. Shells rattling the earth. It happened to be some time since you’d seen the likes of Thomas Shelby. All the tunneler boys in truth. Shelby left a soft place in the final piece of softness in your heart though. He held the merit and dreams of most men that had been fighting in the beginning. However, France had killed the boy within him with made your soul mourn for the boy-child spirit that would be left in the bloody mud of the Western Front. 

--- 

Goodbyes of that day still remain even over a year on from war’s end. Some paranoid people believe another war is to come from this one. Of course, you hope not. Yet, the state of the tied up affairs in the war wasn’t neat and tidy. Germany did suffer harsher conditions than most. Mostly due to the prejudice caused by the cousin nation, losses made people angry and craving blood. The blood you still spent long wholes mopping up and cleaning as a stationed nurse in a London hospital. 

Preparing however for the new transfer to Small Heath, Birmingham a place that you’d long forgotten. But not that man that still weighed heavy on your heart. Come Saturday evening, the train into Birmingham wasn’t packed, nor quiet. It had been situated that there would be a small townhouse that you’d be staying at with other registered nurses in the area. The unmarried ones, at least. Holding your bags you walked to the address, shown to a room by one of the lovely ladies you were living with. All present had proposed a night at the Garrison for drinks in celebration of your arrival. 

The jolly frolic in the evening didn’t seem at all a bad idea. More so, refreshing. You hadn’t taken many chances to enjoy yourself anymore after the war. So, this would be an ample opportunity. So, all dolled up and pampered. You strolled down the streets with the ladies gushing and giggling with the Small Heath gossips. Many fans of the bad boys in town, the Peaky Blinders. 

You didn’t remember why this name meant anything. Shaking away the thought, in the time of being merry and joyous. Listening to tales and laughs from the girls. Sipping on your drink, the air alive with cheerful drunkards or the occasional fight that had the girls and yourself pushed up against the bar to get out of the crossfire. Unknown to you who was watching from the private booth door. Struck dead like he’d seen a ghost after all this time. A time when the war left a feeling of wanting to forget in his soul. 

Thomas Shelby swallowed the bile rising in his throat, stepping out of the salvation and privacy of his private booth. With one goal at that moment. To come to you. At wars end, he came searching for you. But never had a name to go off. He remembered the little pet-name he gave you. Nothing else. Well, he remembered your beauty but not your full name. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in dusty ol’ Birmingham, aye?” He asked with a cock of his brow, a rise in his voice. Holding a sure hope. A wilder smile tugged on your cheek. Truer than anything expressed for the entirety of the whole night. Stepping forward daring you touched him, then followed with a sincere searing kiss. That shocked most of you company, patrons and Tommy’s family in the private booth. 

“Off to pick up a man I left down in a dark hole,” you said smoothly. Voice sweeter than the drink on your lips. The smell of tobacco, lilac perfume and drink clung to you.  Tommy looked smart and handsome. Just as you pictured him if you saw him again one day. In the following moments, no one spoke when the pair left the bar, once more in the cool of the night. Walking hand in hand. No desired destination. Just anywhere away from people. Just you and Thomas focking Shelby.

[corpse--diem]

Point of No Return | Marley & Erin

TIMING: The night after Tommy’s death. PARTIES: @detectivedreameater & @corpse–diem SUMMARY: Marley needs to see for herself that Tommy’s gone and the two leave with a souvenir for Roy.  CONTENT WARNINGS: Bear decapitation 

Marley pulled the car up onto the side of the road near the trailhead and was reminded of the last time she’d been out here. It was for a much more pleasant reason, but tonight, she was here to put to rest something that still burned in her chest. To make sure, to see for herself, that he was dead. Hands gripped the steering wheel knuckle white, even after the car was shut off and the head beams stopped illuminating the trees in front of them. Eyes glowing in the dark of the car, she looked over at Erin. They’d started this together, they would end this together. Whatever they found out in the forest, it was going to put them one step closer to taking Roy down. “If for some reason my source lied and he’s still alive, you have to run,” she said firmly, hands still on the wheel, “okay?”

There was an excitement buzzing under Erin’s skin, warm and familiar. The kind that made it hard to sit still too long, especially in the thick of the uncomfortable silence she found herself currently drenched in. There was no doubt that this wasn’t easy for Marley. This was supposed to be her win. But a win was a win, and lately they were hard to come by. The scales had just shifted favorably in their direction and Roy’s best man was down for the count. Couldn’t they just celebrate that? Peering into the darkness, she glanced over at Marley when her voice cut the silence. “Don’t have to tell me twice.” Paused with her hand on the door handle when she noticed how tightly Marley still gripped the steering wheel. “You ready for this?” She asked, her voice softer now.

Somehow, the softness in Erin’s voice made Marley’s hands grip tighter. “Of course I am,” she said quickly, pulling her hands from the wheel and kicking her door open. The car dinged to remind her the keys were still in and she yanked them out. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She shut her door and went around to the trunk. Dug out her backpack and slid it on. She was leaving here with a trophy, and not even Erin was going to stop her this time. When she came around to Erin’s side, she looked her square in the eyes. “Let’s go,” was all she said, before brushing by her and heading out into the thickets. She glanced down at her gps, guiding them to the same spot she’d given Kaden. Her other hand resting gently on her glock.

Shut down in two seconds flat. Erin didn’t know why she was surprised but her eyes still rolled hard at Marley’s immediate dismissal. Figures. “You’re right. Dumb question,” she said, following after her. Stuck close beside her as they walked, briefly wondering why they had decided traipsing through the woods to find a corpse at night was a good idea. Felt like the beginning of a horror movie. She should’ve been screaming at herself from the comfort of her couch right about now instead of actually living it, but the excitement and adrenaline of confirming Tommy’s death was too tempting to turn down. “So,” she said suddenly, glancing up at Marley. “Say we find him. What then? Gonna mount his head in your living room?” Her lips curved up in a smile. But as she sidestepped a particularly large root, her shoe sunk shallowly into the mud beneath it, coming back up a murky, dark muddy red. She stopped completely, grabbing Marley’s arm, splotches of the same color marking a trail that extended past the immediate thicket. “Shit--” she swallowed, murmuring as she wiped her shoe on a patch of dry grass, trying not to think about whose blood was caked on there. “Something tells me we close,” she grumbled.

“No,” Marley said in a low voice, “I’m going to cut his head off and deliver it to Roy.” She hefted her pack, striding forward easily. Night was her home. She felt free at nighttime. Free of worry, free of pain, free of everything. Nothing could touch her unless she wanted it to. Marley walked right through the puddles of blood, not even stopping when Erin grabbed her arm, only slowing. She pulled her arm through Erin’s grasp by letting herself become momentarily intangible, turning to glance back at her. “Is it the puddles of blood that gave it away?” she asked, raising a brow. “Don’t stop now, we’re almost there.” She could feel her skin vibrating. Blood was a good sign. The idea of Tommy being dead hadn’t really settled into her-- it sounded fake, like a dream, but it became more real by the seconds. And then she saw it, left in the middle of a small clearing to rot-- his body. Brown fur matted with blood and mud and leaves, bullet holes riddling his body. A stab to the gut. She remembered the two shots she’d gotten off on him and she felt herself craving to have a gun in her hand right now. To blow his face off, too. She approached slowly, before reaching a boot out to prod the body. “He’s dead,” she announced, turning to look at Erin finally. “They did it.”

Erin wasn’t thinking when she grabbed Marley’s arm. Just a reactionary movement, an instinct, and her hand dropped when her body became incorporeal. The remark following earned her another eye roll. Christ. It was hard to tell if it was regular Marley sarcasm or if her words had more of a sting because of her annoyance with Erin. Either way, hadn’t they decided to knock this shit off? Act civilized so they could the job done? Setting her jaw tightly, she decided saying nothing was the best option and followed behind. Fuck. And there he was. Probably the first time she’d ever set eyes on the bugbear in person and it was like this. Wasn’t far off from how she met most people, though, she supposed. “This is him? You’re sure?” She asked, her eyes turned upwards slowly to Marley, then back to the biggest damn bear she’d ever seen in her life. Marley would know. Of course she would know. This was the closest thing she’d get to closure. Without thinking, she pulled a knife from her hip, one of the biggest ones she could find in Nic’s arsenal treasure trove. Wasn’t about to come out here unprepared herself, not if there was any chance they’d killed the wrong bear. She turned the hilt towards Marley, offering it up. “Think this’ll work?” She asked, raising a brow at the bear.

“Yes,” Marley said, a bit of bite to her voice as she stared the bear in the face, “I’m sure.” She’d recognize him anywhere, bear or not. She’d never forget the look in his eyes as he swiped claws across her face. As he lumbered over her, ready to crush her to death. Marley blinked away from the memories and when she looked over at Erin, there was a knife being handed to her. She’d brought her own knife, of course, but she understood this was more than just a knife. It was a gesture. So she took it, handle cool in her hand, before turning back to the bear. “You might wanna stand back,” she said, going over to the head and grabbing his ear, yanking the head back to expose his neck. “This is gonna get messy.” Without waiting, she jabbed the knife in and started slitting down his throat, from the ear to his chin. Grunted with the effort, satisfied with the feeling of flesh parting so easily under the blade. The slick noise made her chest feel tight, and even if he was already dead, it was a feeling she wouldn’t soon forget. When she was done cutting, she turned to look back at Erin, hands coated in coagulated blood. “Gonna need your help this time,” she said, grabbing hold of one side of his head, “just pull, and twist. On three.”

Erin raised a brow at Marley’s warning. After spending months knee deep in supernatural creatures guts, she felt pretty confident she could handle it. “Oh. Sure. Love to,” she murmured, crinkling her nose as she leaned down, grabbing tufts of fur. Tried hard not to think about the face on the wall in the warehouse--Tommy’s human face--as she readied herself. Human, bear, whatever form he took, it helped to remember he was a murderer who'd nearly killed her best friend. On three, she pulled and twisted as instructed and with some effort, the head finally popped off. She fell back onto the ground, the head landing in her lap. Even unattached, it was heavier than it looked. “Ugh,” she groaned, annoyance in her voice as the mess of the separation soaked through her clothes. She lifted it up, holding it out to her. “Your trophy, m’lady. Get it the hell off of me.”

The crunch and the snap didn’t feel as satisfying, but then again, Marley had never been one for true gore, despite her nature. She preferred psychological horror, but she’d make an exception for Tommy. Erin tumbled backwards, as did the head, and Marley stumbled off to the side, wiping her hands on her pants before looking down at her. “It’s not a trophy,” she said, kneeling next to Erin instead of taking the head, and opening up the pack she’d brought. She pulled out the plastic evidence bags she’d brought-- the largest they had-- and opened it. “Here,” she said, “set in.” Held it open for Erin, then sealed the bag up when it was secure. She stood, hefting it up. “It’s a warning,” she finished finally, looking around the bag to Erin. “Shall we go back?”

Erin hauled herself up, dusting off the dirt on the back of her legs, though there wasn’t much to be done about her clothes at this point. She wiped red hands on the dry parts, watching her seal the head up in a bag. Nodded slowly but her feet didn’t move, carefully, finally considering the consequences that would come from not only this, but from dumping the head tactlessly somewhere for Roy to find. They had the knife, they had all the information they needed to make the killing blow. “I’m happy you got this. I am. And I’m sorry you didn’t get to do it yourself,” Erin started, her eyes falling to the rest of the bear carcass at their feet. It was hitting her, now of all times, that this was almost over. Roy’s strongest man was dead. His army was effectively dismantled. His stronghold over the town was just an illusion, and any power he had left was the kind that could only be bought or sold. She bit her lip and set her jaw, trying to picture it--an end to this. It felt like she’d been fighting for years, not months. “But--shit. This is it. Point of no return.” She cast a long look over at Marley, never more thankful that she was still standing right in front of her. That she hadn’t gone and done this herself. That she’d stuck by her side every step of the way even when Erin had made it difficult. She nodded once. “Thank you.” It felt wholly insufficient but for now, she hoped it was enough.

Marley was working on strapping the head to her bag so she didn’t have to carry it in her hands the entire way back. The less fingerprints she left, the better. Erin’s voice cut through the quiet clearing and Marley glanced up at her. Without her glasses on, the dull glow of her eyes reflected lightly on Erin’s clothes, almost hiding the red stains of blood now on her jacket, her pants. Marley stood up slowly, wiping her own hands off. “It was never about killing him,” she said quietly, “he took something from me and I wanted it back. He took--” she paused. She hated admitting things, admitting her weaknesses, but Erin was the one person on this Earth that she felt safe sharing them with. She cleared her throat, looking away when she found her gaze too hard to hold. “Fear was my thing. In those moments, where I thought I was going to die-- I was afraid. He made me feel afraid.” She paused, looked down at the severed head. Drew in a breath, picked up her pack, and turned to head back out of the trees. “Turns out, being afraid isn’t a weakness.” And with that, she started the trek back.

Erin listened quietly, genuinely trying to understand. Marley’s eyes fell harmlessly on her as she spoke, and it’d been some time since Erin had truly been unnerved by them. Didn’t mean she had forgotten the power that lay dormant there. Power, fear, that had brought her to her knees. “It’s a weakness until you realize it doesn’t have to be,” Erin nodded, following slowly behind. They both understood that lesson well, though, didn’t they? She had to wonder though, after all was said and done-- “How does it feel?” She asked, blurting out the words. After all the time and energy she’d spent going after Roy, plotting and scheming and fantasizing about bringing the man to his end, she wouldn’t truly know how the chips would fall when it was said and done. They weren’t done, but for all intents and purposes, Marley and Tommy’s feud had come to an end. “Now that he’s gone, he’s dead--how do you feel?”

How did she feel? Marley didn’t actually know. She hadn’t taken them time to figure out what it meant that Tommy was dead, even after getting the message. Maybe she hadn’t believed it, or maybe she hadn’t let herself believe it until she found the body herself. Sometimes it felt like it was too good to be true. Even if she’d been imaging his death since the first swipe of his claw-- no, since before that. Since the first drop of a hint that he knew who she was. Each passing day had only intensified that desire, until she’d looked at herself in the mirror one day and realized that death wasn’t actually what she wanted from Tommy. She had wanted to know what his fear felt like, what it tasted like, because he got to taste hers. He got to feed on hers. And now he was dead, she’d never actually get what she wanted from him. To look him in the eyes and watch him beg for his life in fear. And so, she had no feelings about him being dead. Without pausing her strides, she simply said, “Better,” and kept going, the sound of the plastic back crunching against her backpack with each step.

[aredhel-of-gondolin]

I got this prompt on my ao3 a while ago and I figured I’d post it here too because I’m looking for good Lord of the Rings prompts! Let me know what you think.

Prompt: “So it’s a one-shot where Legolas is sleeping (recovering from an injury and is in Imladris) and Aragorn is sitting next to him, watching over him and like braiding a strand of his hair??? tooth rotting fluff please!!! Thank you xoxo (strictly platonic)”

“Elrond, Ada! Come quickly!”

Aragorn’s panicked voice echoed throughout the halls of Imladris. He stumbled through the doorways as his boots refused to hold traction on the smooth stone floors. The reason for his haste was obvious; in addition to his own bloodied and bruised face, he held Legolas, supporting his friend with one of his arms slung around his neck.

It was clear that they had both encountered trouble—orcs, if the viscous black substance muddying their clothing was any indication.

Aragorn resumed his plea for aid, calling out again, “Elrond!”

Legolas was in bad condition. The normally graceful elf was almost delirious, stumbling and struggling to keep his eyes open. The only thing keeping him awake was Aragorn’s constant ministrations.

Aragorn feared the worst for his friend. They had been returning from an outing when they had been set upon by a band of orcs not far from the borders of Rivendell. The two of them had managed to fend them off, but not before one particularly nasty brute had cornered Aragorn against a tree. Aragorn had looked in despair at the advancing orc, having lost his sword to another attacker mere seconds ago. He’d made ready to dart away, but the orc had come too close, too fast, and was raising its massive axe to cleave through his head.

But at that moment, Legolas had turned around and seen his impending fate. The elf had swiftly incapacitated the orc, but not without leaving his side unguarded to a vicious swipe.

Aragorn had seen the exact moment the foul blade had stabbed his friend, the exact moment he had let out a cry of pain. It was the exact moment Aragorn had seen red.

And now, it was all Aragorn could do to stay focused, in the present. It was all he could do to carry Legolas through the halls and hope it wasn’t too late.

At last, after a seemingly interminable wait, the rounded the corner to the healing wings. A ragged sigh left Aragorn’s lips and he allowed himself a slight feeling of relief.

Quickly though, he refocused and laid Legolas on a small healing cot. In his frantic mindset, he barely noticed Erestor looking in with wide eyes.

“Go get Elrond, Legolas needs help!” He called at the stricken advisor, his usual courtesy overridden by the situation.

Erestor nodded sharply and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though Elrond muttered under his breath as he hurried to the healing wing, he was worried. It seemed more likely to have a polite cup of tea with Morgoth himself than to have those two to return to his realm unscathed.

Elrond entered the room, swiftly taking in the scene before him. Legolas was stretched out on a cot, bleeding steadily from a wound in his side, while Aragorn crouched next to him, keeping pressure on the gash and still unaware of his presence.

Elrond took a breath. “Aragorn, I need you to move so I can tend to him.”

The Ranger tensed, startled. Swiftly he turned around, eyes wide and pleading. “Oh, thank Iluvatar, I thought.....” he trailed off.

His healing instincts taking over, Elrond gently took Aragorn by his shoulders and pushed him aside, but only so much as to give him a view. He was wary to let Aragorn release his hands from the wound just yet.

“Keep your hands there.... good, like that.” Elrond quickly stepped over to the side table and opened his bag. Rifling through the contents, he soon withdrew a handful of herbs, a needle, and some thread. Setting these aside for the moment, he grabbed a washcloth and a small vase of water. These were kept fresh in every healing room for emergencies, such as these.

All this took only a few seconds, and he turned back to the pair.

“Aragorn, remove your hands.” He did so, cautiously backing away to let Elrond do his healing. “Now go and rinse them off in that basin over there.”

Aragorn nodded dully and did as he asked.

“Now, I need you to grind those herbs and make a poultice while I clean and stitch this.” Elrond’s words were cool and calm, and Aragorn took comfort in them.

Once his hands were suitably washed, Aragorn busied himself with the poultice. He nodded with approval when he recognized athelas and pelas were among them, and the aromatic, soothing scent soon wafted through the air.

Through all this, Legolas kept still on the cot. Though he had been conscious as Aragorn carried him in, he’d blacked out as soon as they made it to the healing room. Probably a combination of blood loss and shock, thought Aragorn.

He turned around to find that Elrond had finished cleaning the wound and was now stitching it carefully and evenly. Noticing his gaze, the elf lord asked, “How did this happen?”

It was a testament to his patience that he’d waited until now to inquire. But then again, Elrond was likely so accustomed to treating grave wounds for all his sons and their companions, that it had become second nature.

Aragorn stilled, the events racing back to the forefront of his mind. “This is all my fault,” he said slowly, his voice cracking slightly under the gravity of his words. “If I hadn’t—“

“None of that, Aragorn,” Elrond broke in, unwilling to see his adopted son blame himself. “I need to know if it was an orc blade.”

“....yes.”

“I’ll need to prepare a stronger tea to ward against infection,” Elrond sighed, having expected this answer. “Their blades are filthy.”

Aragorn wrung his hands, suddenly unsure what to do. He sat down in the chair next to the cot, only to spring back up and begin pacing with pent-up energy from the residual adrenaline.

“If you can’t keep still I’ll have to send you out” reminded Elrond gently as he finished the last of the stitches.

“Is he..... how is it?” Aragorn was back at the side of the cot.

“He’ll be fine, though he needs to be on bed rest for the next few days so as to not tear his stitches,” the elf lord looked over at Aragorn compassionately, knowing his worry extended greatly to those he cared about.

Aragorn calmed down slightly at that. “That’s good,” He finally said.

Now that Legolas was out of imminent danger, memories of the orc attack assaulted his mind. If only he’d been faster, if only he hadn’t lost his sword, if only—

“Pass me the bandages?” He jolted up, nearly topping the chair over in the process, but grabbed the strips of white cloth and handed them to Elrond.

Elrond took them and began skillfully wrapping them over the wound, careful to keep the poultice in place. Finally, it was done and he stepped back.

“The danger has passed and he will recover soon,” he said to Aragorn, satisfied with the state of his patient. “You may stay with him if you wish, but don’t wake him up or do anything strenuous.”

A sudden thought crossed his mind and his brows furrowed. “Are you injured?” Elrond wouldn’t put it past his youngest son to hide an injury—however serious it might be—until his companions were treated.

Aragorn huffed drily. “No Ada, I’m fine.”

A single, perfectly groomed eyebrow raised, highly unamused. It was then that Aragorn realized that ‘I’m fine’ was not reassuring at all, and that he and his brothers tended to use that particular phrase quite often when they were most certainly not fine.

It came as no surprise then that Elrond insisted on checking him over until he was satisfied that there was nothing more than a few scratches, scrapes, and bruises, all of which looked worse than they actually were.

Following the inspection, Elrond gave him instructions on what to look out for, and to not hesitate to fetch him should anything change drastically, then reluctantly left Aragorn to watch over Legolas.

The ranger sank into the chair again, at a loss. Aragorn hated this part. When all the action was over, and the waiting began. The feeling of helplessness, that there was nothing left to do but wait..... and wait, and wait.

He turned his gaze to to Legolas. The blond elf lay so still on the bed that Aragorn sought out the rise and fall of his chest to reassure himself that he still yet lived.

In the sudden silence, light filtered in through the window, illuminating the pale face of Legolas and glinting off his hair.

For the first time since the attack, Aragorn saw the state of his friend. More jarringly, the state of his hair.

Somehow it seemed so wrong that the elf’s hair wasn’t in perfect array. Legolas would be mortified at the sizable collection of leaves and twigs, not to mention the horrendous tangle his braids were in. The elf took great pride in his hair, and it aways seemed to be in pristine condition. He’d often teased Legolas about it, and only got incredulous looks and comments about the apparently “abhorrent, greasy, slimy state” of his own hair.

That particular exchange had resulted in quite the amusing food fight. Until, of course, Legolas has gotten sauce in his beloved locks. At that point, it had quite suddenly ceased to be amusing.

Seeing that it was his duty, of course, as Legolas’s friend, he decided to at least remove the twigs and dirt.

And so he got up from his chair, fetched a fresh bowl of water and a comb, and began. Aragorn gently placed the elf’s head on another pillow, and started to painstakingly remove the debris.

After that, it took the better part of an hour to clean out the black orc blood which had spattered everywhere. It shouldn’t have taken that long, but Aragorn was determined to be as gentle as possible and not wake him up.

Finally, he rinsed the last bit of dirt, grabbed a towel, and the silvery gold hair was once again renewed to its former glory.

Well, almost.

Aragorn frowned, biting his lip for a moment. Legolas looked so strange with his hair just..... loose like that. Though admittedly some of the color had returned to his face and now he looked to be only sleeping.

But, seeing the sunlight glint off his friend’s hair, he couldn’t resist. Briefly, visions of ribbons and frilly pink bows flooded his mind, a welcome respite to the horrors of the battle.

Aragorn stifled a wicked grin, knowing that Legolas would absolutely kill him if he did anything ridiculous with his hair. So he sat down next to the elf, gently pulled the motionless head into his lap, and began to painstakingly recreate his friend’s usual hairstyle as best he could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Legolas came back to consciousness gradually, feeling and memory filtering back at an agonizingly slow pace. For the moment however, he was content to feel his hair being combed and braided.

Wait.

Combed and braided???

Purposefully, he kept his face limp and his breathing even, mimicking a deep sleep. It felt so nice......

Legolas dimly recognized that he must be under the effects of painkilling herbs if he was so willingly allowing someone to touch his hair.

As he relaxed into the touch, the memories of that morning came back and he realized who exactly was tending to him.

A slight smile played about the corners of his lips while he continued to let Aragorn braid his hair.

But even that minuscule movement must have given him away, for the hands froze and a voice sounded.

“Legolas, mellon nin? Are you awake?”

Legolas cracked his eyes open to see Aragorn’s face but a few inches away, looking intently at him. But as he came more fully into the realm of consciousness, unfortunately so did his other senses.

A dull, yet unrelenting and fiery pain seemed to echo and pulse through his side. He must’ve shut his eyes again and groaned, because suddenly Aragorn was making soothing noises and had gone back to braiding his hair.

After a while, the shock of the pain subsided and Legolas ventured to open his eyes again.

“You’re—“ he began.

“Do not try to talk, my friend. Just rest for now. You’re safe.”

And so Legolas relaxed again, giving into the silent urge to fall back into oblivion as Aragorn continued to arrange his hair. Strange, that this human had come so far as for him to let Aragorn braid his hair when he himself was unable to. It was a privilege he only granted to those he trusted completely, and not many had made it on that list. Ever.

And if he was to wake up the next day and see that Aragorn had absolutely no skill at braiding and that his entire head was a complete disaster?

Well, it was nobody’s business why he didn’t fix it.

[anistarrose]

Some Sunny Day Bonus Chapter 3: Seen and Unseen

AO3

Summary: A grove of birch trees on a familiar hill, an encounter in the woods that goes terribly wrong, and two memory guns.

Characters: Stan Pines, Bill Cipher, Ford Pines, Fiddleford McGucket, Blind Ivan

Been a while, huh? I was planning to celebrate the anniversary of finishing this fic with two bonus chapters just stuffed chock full of hurt/comfort, but then life happened (I got a part-time job and also mild insomnia, you know how it is) so enjoy some prequel angst instead! This one is canon to SSD and set in early 1982, shortly after the portal incident.

***

After a scare with frostbite in late February, Stan sets out at the first sign of melting snow to resume his search for the journals. A snowdrift had blocked several trails behind the house last week, but now they’re passable — so long as you don’t mind the overcast weather, and being up to your heels in mud.

Stan had enjoyed hunting for fake treasure and following Ford’s cryptic clues when they would pretend to be adventurers as kids — he’d been good at it, even. But this time, Ford has left him no hand-drawn treasure maps or whimsical riddles — only more ominous clues, like a ransacked, now empty medicine cabinet, or a ripped out journal page about being watched with X-ed out triangles drawn in all the margins. Clues that make Stan feel like throwing up, because they should mean something to him, but he just can’t bring himself to think it through and face the inevitable conclusion.

This is all my fault.

He stumbles to a halt at the foot of a hill, and realizes he’s surrounded by birch trees. He’s surrounded by eyes that never blink — or maybe, he thinks, before he can tell himself he’s going crazy, eyes that only blink when I’m blinking.

The birch trees don’t scare him the way the rest of the forest does — he’s not afraid of some creature or cryptid sneaking up on him here, where the forest is so deathly silent and he’s left all alone with himself. They don’t scare him the way the town does, either — despite everything, he feels less watched here, where there are no strangers shooting him suspicious glares or cloaked figures vanishing around corners and into the shadows.

No, the birch trees set Stan on edge because whenever he sees them — makes eye contact with them? — he knows he’s forgetting something. It’s something important, something horrible, something dangerous — like the fear of having left the stove on, except multiplied by a million. Disaster is impending, and he’s the one to blame.

This is where I belong.

He hates this place, but he’s come this far, so he can’t leave without giving the eerie birch grove a proper search. He doubts that Ford, at the height of his paranoia, would hide a journal on a hill where even the trees could watch him — but if Stan leaves now, and can’t find the journal anywhere else in the valley, he knows he’ll have to revisit this place eventually. He doesn’t ever want to revisit this unpleasant memory again, if he can avoid it.

Setting out to leave no stone unturned, he finds there are few stones on the hill to turn in the first place. There are few hiding places of any sort, nor any signs of recent digging. Stan suddenly regrets throwing out his metal detector all those years ago, and wonders if the other journals have enough brass in them to give a signal —

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up before he realizes why. He knows someone’s coming before he hears the snap of twigs or the hushed voices, the murmur of “look at the footprints, he came this way.”

They’re coming from the direction of his — Ford’s house. They must’ve followed him — or as they believed it, followed Ford out here for a reason.

“Who’s there?” Stan shouts, cringing as he hears how hoarse his voice is. His impression of Ford improves as he adds, “What brings you out here?”

“We could ask the same of you, Dr. Pines,” a deep voice booms as two figures in hooded red robes step into view, one more hesitantly than the other. They both wield identical, uncomfortably gun-shaped contraptions. “Still haven’t given up on your project, have you?”

If these cultists, or assassins, or whatever the hell they are know anything about Ford, then Stan needs to know it too. He takes a measured risk.

“I have a lot of projects. You’ll have to be more specific —”

“Ya know what we mean, Stanford.” It’s the second robed figure who speaks up, the one who’d lagged behind his deep-voiced co-conspirator, and the Southern accent throws Stan for a loop. His words suggest some kind of threat, but his gun-toting arm hangs limp at his side. “I — I didn’t want to do this, I really didn’t — but you’re becomin’ a danger, Ford, a danger to yourself and to everyone. And we — we’re here to stop you.”

“Wait!” Stan holds up his hands, dropping his Ford impression. “You’ve got this all wrong! Ford’s not dangerous, he’s in danger and I’m trying to —”

“Enough excuses!” the first figure barks, raising his gun. “IT IS UNSEEN!”

Blue light beams out of the contraption’s bulb, and Stan instinctively raises a hand to shield himself — but the light bends in midair, as if refracted by an invisible prism. It illuminates the clearing like a flash of lightning, but misses Stan by a mile.

“I told you to wait,” he whispers. He understands nothing about the bending of the light, yet somehow, could not be more certain that he alone had caused it.

“Ford?” the second figure asks, no longer sounding hesitant nor conflicted. There’s only one emotion in that voice, and it’s fear.

His companion, on the other hand, aims again without a word — and the light soars over Stan’s head as he falls to his knees, numb to the pain of the impact. Numb to everything except one thought, one single truth, easier to face than any sort of self-reflection on the power he held.

They think I’m Ford. They tried to hurt Ford. They tried to hurt Ford. They tried to —

He makes a fist with his right hand, and he sees the scene through a hundred new perspectives as sickly yellow eyes blink to life on every birch tree. He makes a fist with his left hand, and the forest comes alive.

The robed figures trip over gnarled roots, one of them even dropping his gun, but the trees continue to animate, trunks bending over and bare branches wrapping themselves around limbs. A wind whips through the grove as the cultists flail, begging as they make eye contact — not with the arboreal limbs ensnaring them, but with Stan’s body itself.

And Stan watches in both complete control, and complete disbelief of it all.

There’s a pressure against his skull, a dam about to burst after holding the flood of memories back for too long. There are leaks already, trickles of information and sparks of blue fire that chill him to his core, as images flash through his mind without coming from the birch trees, or even from his own lifetime.

Ford’s not the dangerous one. I am.

Ford’s the one who’s in danger.

Because of me.

The birches loosen their grip on the cultists, who flee the second they can shake themselves free. Stan’s left alone again, staring himself down with his hundred yellow eyes, and he can see guilt in every one of them.

He rises to a standing position, roots winding around his boots and bark creeping up his mud-soaked pants. He can’t face the world, he can’t face Ford, he can’t face himself knowing what he’s capable of, knowing that he’s the worst of all the monsters lurking in the woods —

As the trees of the grove reshape their roots and the ground shakes from the strain, the dropped gun bounces towards Stan’s feet.

It is unseen, he remembers one of the figures shouting.

He picks it up, inputs birch trees, and holds it to his head as he closes as many of his eyes as he can. Fire burns away his memories, and a deluge of ink-black water rushes in to absorb the ashes and fill their place.

***

Fiddleford McGucket runs for dear life with Ivan hot on his heels, until they reach the museum and barricade themselves inside an empty room, bracing themselves for pursuit. When it doesn’t come, Fiddleford enters a name into the memory gun, starting over several times after his trembling fingers betray him.

“Just — just another monster to erase,” Ivan stammers, “with a more human name than most.”

Fiddleford finally gets the spelling right. Two flashes of light with the input screen reading Stanford Pines, and memories of the day’s encounter — and then some — go up in flames.

It is unseen.

***

Stan is kneeling at the muddy base of an even muddier hill, surrounded by trees that look like they’re staring at him.

Or maybe, eyes that only blink when I’m — never mind. That’s ridiculous.

On the ground in front of him is a strange kind of gun, with a lightbulb in place of the barrel. He thinks he’s glimpsed some robed, vaguely cult-looking types carrying these around in town before, so after staggering to his feet, he smashes the device beneath his boot.

He has a feeling he’s forgetting something important again, but he can’t be bothered to try and remember again. He can’t bear to think about it any longer.

***

End notes:

This hill with the birch trees is the same one where Ford took a nap and first met Bill, so needless to say, Stan’s gut instinct about Ford not hiding any journals in a place like this was dead-on.

I have a lot more bonus content planned for this series, like the two-parter I alluded to in the earlier notes, but I’ve got no idea when any of that’s coming aside from a cautiously optimistic estimate of “later in 2020.” Once again, I’m so grateful for all the support you guys have given this fic from the beginning just over two years ago, to the “ending” exactly one year ago, all the way up through today :’)

[talpup]

Summary: Yami Sukehiro just wanted to join the Magic Knights and make his mentor proud.  He knew there would be trails.  He knew trouble would come his way.  Knew he would be faced with discrimination for being a foreigner and a peasant.  What he didn’t know.  Didn’t expect.  Was that literal Chaos would come his way.  That he and his mentor’s sister would be at the center of world ending trouble.  Or that he would fall in love with his mentor’s sister and face more than discrimination; but the jealously of Nozel Silva who loved the same woman he did.

Please remember this fic is rated mature and has warnings of violence, abuse, sexual tension, eventual sexual behavior, and other possible triggers.  For a full list of story tags please check the fics AO3 (link to that at the top of my tumblrs homepage).

Chapter 85

“You done heaving there, Teris?  Good.  Run.”  Greywright barked, not waiting for answer.

Hands on knees Teris glared over at the Magic Knights Commander. Greywright sat on the ground, legs kicked out, ankles crossed. Straight arms propping him up, the Commander's head lolled forward, eyes closed.  The only reason he knew she had stopped running was because one of the three magically created army men that stood guard around the fields perimeter had seen.

Even though it was an hour or so before sunrise and the spring air was chill, Teris was overheated.  She was soaked through with sweat and exhausted.  They all were.  Greywright had them work till they were about to fall over, gave them a ten minute break, and made them work some more.  They had been at it all night.  Running.  Holding their arms out at their sides.  In Yami’s case holding weights.  And all sorts of other physical exercises.  There wasn’t a muscle in Teris’ body that didn’t ache.  There were muscles Teris hadn’t known she had that ached.

One of Greywright’s army men appeared behind Teris.  It grabbed her by the back of her tank top, her button up blouse long since discarded, and moved her along.

“Run.” Greywright commanded, mercilessly.

Nozel passed her as her feet slowly began to move.  The cold, distant look he’d been giving her at the start of their torture session was long gone.  The Silver Eagles eyes were now glazed over with fatigue, pain, and a dazed focus as he endeavored to put one foot in front of the other and not fall over.

Teris saw Yami up ahead.  He wasn’t struggling as bad as Fuegoleon, Nozel, and she.  Though Yami had slowed considerably and took multiple stutter steps as he jogged.  Just before completing another circuit Teris paused to help Fuegoleon to his feet.  Nozel reached them and extended a hand to the Crimson Lion, the two pulling Fuegoleon to his feet.

“That’s enough.  Come on over.”  Greywright called, seeing the charitable act.

Yami cut across the field and saw some of the gouges that Teris and he had made during their first year as Magic Knights training here with Greywright.  He was so tired he couldn’t even smile at the memory.

“Cool down.  Drink some water.  And get some sleep.  I’ll wake you in a couple hours.”  Greywright told.

“How is this--”

Greywright’s eyes snapped to Yami, silencing him.  “Run another ten.”

Yami ground his teeth and took his pace back up.

A ghost of a smirk pulled at the corners of Fuegoleon’s parted, panting lips.  He cast Teris a sharp look as he shouldered passed her.

If the Crimson Lion thought he could get away with it cause Greywright wasn’t looking, he had another thing coming.  One of his army men having seen, Greywright said.  “You can run another seven, Fuegoleon.”

Yami turned back and complained.  “Why do I get ten and he--”

“Make it twelve, Yami.”  Greywright said.

Yami’s lip curled in a snarl.  He glared at the Magic Knights Commander wanting to argue; but knew it would only lead to further laps.

One of Greywright’s army men saw Nozel’s smug pleasure.  “Another six for you, Nozel.”

Teris was afraid to move least the Knights Commander send her back out.

“Have a seat, Teris.  Catch your breath.  Cool down.  Drink up and get some sleep.  We’re far from finished.”  Greywright said.

85.1.2

Yami awoke to a splash of frigid water in the face.  His arms were so sore he fumbled at unsheathing his katana.  Seeing one of Greywright’s faceless army men standing in front of him holding a bucket Yami pushed the half pulled blade back into its scabbard.  He smelled food and his stomach growled in response.

“Water. Bread.”  Greywright clipped, his army men throwing them each a small loaf and water skin.  “You want more than that, you have to answer my questions and earn it.”

The Knights Commander saw Teris shivering in the now muddy ground, and regretted the freezing temperature of the water he had doused her with.  He had forgotten that her regular temp ran higher than normal and that extreme cold effected her that much worse than anyone else. Yami was the exact opposite.  He ran lower and though he preferred it warmer than most, unnaturally higher temps got to him quicker.  It was one of the things that made their ability to tolerate each others magical extremes of heat and cold that much more intriguing.

The memory of the disturbance last night washed away any urge Greywright had to apologize.  The fact that his favorite had been part of such a ruckus angered and disappointed him.  He knew Teris had a temper and quite a ways to grow yet.  But if she was to have a chance of one day taking his position, like she wanted and he was silently rooting for, she couldn’t openly fight with her fellows.  Events like last night could never happen again.

“Teris. Say something nice about Fuegoleon.”  Greywright commanded.

Teris’ eyebrows knitted together.  She cast a glare at her cousin then looked back at Greywright.

“I know you want more than bread and water.”  Greywright urged.

“That’s not a question.  You said— Son of a—damn it!”  Yami cussed, in pain.

Greywright smirked at Yami’s twitching jerk, the Vice Captain's hair standing on end of a brief moment.  He showed them the charm he held.  “Small charge of lightening.  Nothing fatal or injury inducing.  But it hurts like hell.  Especially if your wet.”

“You’re telling me.”  Yami grumbled.  His tongue smacked against the roof of his mouth.  He tasted air.  Could one taste air?  Did air have taste?  Not wanting Teris to suffer that thing, Yami looked at her. “Say something nice about your cousin.”

Teris glanced at Fuegoleon again.  After a moments thought, she finally said.  “He has pretty colored eyes.”

Greywright tried and failed not to sigh.  He was use to managing the Captain's, who often bickered and acted like children in their own right, but this was ridiculous.  “Let’s stay away from the physical.  Focus on who he is.  Traits.  Personality.  Try again.”

Teris glared at the Magic Knights Commander.  “You could have been more specific at the—Ow!  That hurts!”

Nozel and Fuegoleon tensed seeing Teris in pain.  But it was Yami who moved.  Greywright pointed the charm at Yami.  Yami’s lip curled in a silent snarl, but lowered his bottom back to the ground.

The Magic Knights Commander looked across the four Vice Captain's.  “You are here to learn how to behave, obey, and get along.  And not a one of you is leaving until you all have shown me you are capable of these things.”

“I’m going to die here because of an ill tempered foreigner who—“ Fuegoleon’s mutter cut short in a sharp grunt of pain.

“Hurts doesn’t it.”  Yami grinned, seeing the Crimson Lion get some.  He was left gritting his teeth against the buzzing, burning sting.  Yami glared at the Knights Commander.

“Teris. Say something nice about Fuegoleon.”  Greywright said again.

“He’s a good older brother to Leo.”  Teris quickly snipped.

Greywright sighed.  That wasn’t what he was looking for, but it was good enough for now.  “Fuegoleon.  Say something nice about Teris.”

Fuegoleon looked at Teris out of the corner of his eye.  “She’s smart. Most of the time.”

“Let’s not add any caveats at the end.”  Greywright said.  “Nozel.  Say something nice about Yami.”

Nozel’s eyes widened.  Why was the Knights Commander asking the impossible of him?

Greywright pointed the charm at him.  “You heard me.”

The Silver Eagle blinked rapidly, trying to think.  “He might be a brute but his strength can be useful.”

Greywright rubbed his forehead, resisting the urge to zap the royal.  It was his own fault.  “No stipulations of any form anywhere.  Understood. Good.  Yami.”

Yami looked at the Commander his expression one of expectancy.

“Your turn.”  Greywright growled.

“Teris is a fine, strong, capable fighter and leader.”  Yami said.

Greywright pointed the charm at the Black Bull.

Yami growled at the zapping pain.

“You deserved that one.”  Greywright said, feeling a short burst of gratification.  “About Nozel.  Yami.  Say something nice about Nozel.”

“He’s the epitome of what it means to be royal.”  Yami said.

It wasn’t exactly something Yami considered a good thing and knew the others would know that as well; but there was little Greywright could do unless he was willing to go on record in front of three royals saying that calling someone a perfect example of royalty wasn’t a nice thing to say.

Greywright sighed, feeling tired and defeated despite the small measure of success.  “Eat up.”

Greywright knew what the problem was between Yami and Nozel.  There was no fixing the issue anytime soon.  Hopefully once Teris turned twenty and the decision she had to make came to a head, things would settle down between the two men.  Till then, the best they could hope for was Yami and Nozel not turning on each other on a battlefield and the most basic civility.

As for Fuegoleon and Teris.  Greywright had no clue what they were fighting over; but he intended to find out and see that it was fixed. He might've blamed Teris for instigating something, given the smell of alcohol on her breath last night.  But the fact that Fuegoleon had responded in kind meant there was more to it.

The Magic Knights Commander decided to give them the choice.  “We can sit here and Fuegoleon and Teris can tell us why they’re fighting. Or you can run till you drop.”

Nozel looked up.  “After eating, running would--”

“I didn’t say it’d be fun or good for you.”  Greywright cut over the royal’s words.  He looked over the four Vice Captain's. “Choose.”

“Hearing why they’re fighting.”  Nozel said, eyes moving between Teris and Fuegoleon.

“It’s cause the Lion Cub’s an--”  Yami fell silent seeing Greywright lift the charm.

“Yami’s right.  It’s cause Leon’s a--”  Teris snapped her mouth shut when Greywright pointed the charm at her.

“Running it is.”  Greywright said, with forced cheer.

“Wait.” Fuegoleon said.  “They’re not wrong.  At least not completely.” He looked at Teris.  “I was wrong.  Lord Nova wouldn’t be ashamed of you.”

Teris’ expression softened.

“He would be ashamed of what you’re doing.”  Fuegoleon went on.

Teris pushed to her feet and kicked a clod of mud at the Crimson Lion.

Greywright resisted the urge to zap all four of them.  Damn the royals pride. They had been so close to making a positive step.  “Run.”

“I hate you.”  Nozel grumbled at Fuegoleon as they got to their feet.

“It was because of what you told me that I went there in the first place. I was doing it for both of your sake's.”  Fuegoleon snapped.

Nozel spun around to face the Crimson Lion.  “I don’t require your assistance!  Teris is my Intended and--”

“I’m not going to marry you!  Will you just stop!  I have less than a year and a half left before you both finally see I mean what I say and hate me.  Can we not--”  Teris blinked, feeling woozy.

“Teris?” Nozel took a step toward her and fell over.

“Nozel!” Fuegoleon reached out and fell over as well.

Ahead of them, already at a steady jog, Yami stopped and turned around.  As he did he noticed Greywright’s army men had disappeared.  His eyes darted to the Commander and saw Greywright had fallen forward from his seated position on the ground.  He turned to Teris to find Nozel and Fuegoleon were also on the ground.  Thankfully they weren’t dead, his sense of Ki telling him so.

“Get them out of here!”  Yami ordered Teris, unsheathing his katana, eyes and other senses scanning the field of their foe.

“I can’t.”

Yami was already sprinting back to her and their fallen comrades.  “Don’t argue!  Just do it!”

Teris wished the world would stop spinning at a blur.  “No, Yami.  I can--”

Yami rushed the last few steps, catching Teris as she collapsed.  His heart hammered in his chest.  He lowered Teris to the ground and cloaked his katana in darkness.

Teris had said she couldn’t light travel.  Was that because she was weakening and loosing consciousness?  Just because he could still use his magic didn’t mean that this wasn’t Calen’s magic.  The Agents of Chaos had toyed with them before.

Yami saw movement in the distance.  He counted three figures.  They disappeared and reappeared six paces in front of him.  It wasn’t spatial magic.  It was some other form of travel.

“Unless you want to die.  I suggest you leave.”  Yami growled, trying to focus his fuzzy head.

A man pointed at Yami and Teris.  “That’s them.  I sensed their power last night.  It had to have flooded at least a quarter of Castle City.”

“Pay him.”  Said a woman with green glowing eyes.

Yami watched the second man form a shadowy spear and thrust it through the first man.  It wasn’t that Yami had wanted to stand by and do nothing.  But he couldn’t hold the dark magic cloak on his katana. He could barely even hold his blade up.

“You still using your toxin magic, Lila?”  Asked the man who had killed the other.

Lila continued to stare at Yami.  “Can’t you see my eyes glowing, Sorn?  Why ask what you already know?  He’s just that strong.”

Sorn tilted his head, inspecting Yami.  “Interesting.  There might just be something to those fanatics beliefs after all.”

“You can’t be serious.  Magical science will explain this.  Not magical religion.”  Lila watched Yami stumble as he tried to fight through the toxins effects and stay standing.

Sorn nodded.  “Of course.  I only meant--  Never mind he’s fading.”

Yami fell to the ground.

Sorn looked down at the man he had killed.  “He didn’t say three others would be here.  What do we do with them?  Leave them?”

The glow in Lila’s green eyes faded.  Her grimoire snapped shut and fell into her hand.  “Two royals and the Magic Knights Commander? We take them.  Rayla will be pleased.”

85.2

“Light cannot survive without Darkness.  For without Darkness how would one know what Light was?”

“I don’t have time for this Creepy.”  Yami rumbled.  “A man and woman took us out.  I need to wake up.”

“You are the Lord of Destruction.  The final end.”

“Can we not use that name.  It reminds me of a certain dead bastard.” Yami said.

“Your time is coming.  The Darkness grows within.”

“Yeah. I kinda figure we got it wrong and they didn’t want us for the Winter Solstice.  If only we realized it sooner…”  Thinking of Bronn, Yami muttered.  “The things that happened didn’t need to happen.”

“You must possess the Ray of Annihilation if you hope to triumph.”

“You mean Teris?  Yeah, even when I finally marry her I don’t see much possessing going on.  She’s kind of her own person.  It’s one of the things I like that about her.  Anyway, if I’m this dark destructive force, why would I want to triumph?  Wouldn’t that be a bad thing?”

The voice started up with another riddle.

“Stop! I don’t have time for nonsense I won’t remember.  I need to--” Yami woke-up to someone tapping his cheek.  His eyes opened to find an unknown face too close to his.

“There we are.  Last to go down.  Last to rise.  Hello handsome.  I’m Rayla.”  She saw Yami pull against his bindings and told.  “Don’t bother.  Those are unbreakable.”

“I’ve heard that before.”  Yami said, continuing to pull against the cord holding his wrists together above his head.

“Fine and feisty.”  Rayla ran her fingers along Yami’s arms and chest.

“And taken.”  Yami told.  “Don’t go for older women anyway.”

“A shame.  We older women know things those pure virgins don’t.” Rayla leaned forward and breathed into Yami’s ear.  “Is she watching?  Your girl.  Does she look angry?  Jealous?  Let’s give her a good show, shall we.”  She grabbed Yami from beneath his jaw fingers digging into his cheeks and pressed her lips to his, tongue trying to force its way into his mouth.

Yami bit her tongue.  He jerked his face free of Rayla’s grasp, and spat out the blood and taste of her.

Rayla stepped back and pointed something at Yami.  “Maybe later.”

Yami’s mouth opened to fling insults and demand what she wanted; but he found he couldn’t speak.  He tired again.  Tired yelling.  But no sound came.  He had wondered why he hadn’t heard anything from the others and realized Rayla had likely done the same to them.  It was unnerving.

Yami looked at Teris who was bound against the opposite wall from him. Fuegoleon was tied in the same fashion to Teris’ right.  Yami turned his head seeing Nozel to his left and Commander Greywright on the Silver Eagles other side.  Even though they were all bound and rendered speechless, at least they were all together and alive.  For now.

Rayla moved in front of Greywright.  “I must say, you’ve turned into an exceptionally fine specimen.  Though not as fine as those two.” She looked over at Yami and Teris, eyes closing and breathed.  “The mana coming off of them is intoxicating.  The young buck especially. Shame on you and your Wizard King for trying to keep them all to yourselves.  Shame on my King for letting you.”

“Your King didn’t want his kingdom to face the consequences.” Greywright said, feeling Rayla give him the ability to speak.

Rayla laughed.  “What consequences?  Do you mean the threat that you’d use those two as the weapon they could be?  Everyone, including my King, knew that as a lie.”

“So he let you have your way.”  Greywright surmised.

“Hardly. I’ve learned there are times when it’s better to beg forgiveness, preferably with results in hand, than wait for permission.”  Rayla said.

“You’ve made a grave mistake.  Taking Yami and Teris would’ve been bad enough.  But to take two royal princes?  The Silva’s and Vermillion’s will want their heirs back untouched and unharmed.  We would’ve sent select teams of Magics Knights to retrieve Yami and Teris.  But for Nozel and Fuegoleon.  There will be war.” Greywright told.

“I will be returning both you and your four Magic Knights.  But I can’t guarantee they’ll be returned unharmed.  That all depends on them. As for untouched...”  Rayla smiled, wickedly.  “I’ll have my hands all over all four of them soon enough.  As for your threat of war.  It won’t come.  My King hasn’t sanctioned this.  He isn’t aware I have you.  Nor will he until I’m done.  So you can come off your threats Commander.  They’re as futile as the one Jorah gave my King about using those two against us should we make a move for them.”

85.3

The Black Bulls Captain had been fetched by Cob and told that Sir Jorah wished to see him.  At first he had thought it was for a stern talking to about his Vice Captain's behavior last night.  But at the sight of Julius standing beside Kess outside of the Wizard Kings office, he was no longer so sure.

Tapping down his concern, Jax stopped near the other Captain's.  “What’s going on?  Cob was smiley and useless as usual.  I swear there’s something wrong that man.  No one’s that happy all the time.”

“He’s behind you.”  Julius said.

Jax turned and saw the Spatial Mage.  “Shit.  Sorry, Cob.  Please don’t transport me into a volcano.”

Though his smile wasn’t as wide, Cob still wore one.  He waved goodbye and turned away.  “Have a good afternoon.”

Jax watched Cob disappear down the hall.  “Yeah.  That man’s not normal.”

Julius almost said it was because he was use to Bronn’s surliness but caught himself.

“I don’t know.  I think he still might portal you to the bottom of the sea.”  Kess smirked.

Jax turned to her.  “Look at you.  Making snide comments.  Only a week in as Captain and you think you can disrespect me?”

“Leave her, Jax.”  Julius turned to Kess and told.  “It’s his way of saying he’s proud of you.”

Jax gestured to Kess.  “Considering you’re here, I’m figuring our rowdy delinquents are to blame.  What’d they do this time?  Gang up on Greywright and escape whatever hell he was putting them through?”

Kess blinked.  Nozel was far from rowdy and no delinquent.  The royal certainly wouldn’t ever gang up on the Magic Knights Commander.

Julius shrugged.  “Don’t know.  But Mereoleona’s in there with Sir Jorah now.”

“Then why aren’t we?  Don’t tell me Teris kill Fuegoleon.”  Jax said.

Julius raised a humored brow.  “Doubtful.”

“Nozel wouldn’t have done anything.”  Kess said, in defense of her Vice Captain.

“Right.” Jax drawled.  “Cause your little royal prince of a Vice Captain was innocent of any wrong doing in the first place.  Well except for the spear of mercury Greywright said he had primed and ready above Yami’s head.”

Kess frowned.  “If your--”

“Silence!” Jorah commended from behind his desk.

The three Captain’s turned to see the office door had been opened by Ellara.

“It’s no wonder your Vice Captain’s were caught behaving like heathens with you for examples.  If we didn’t have something more troubling to deal with I’d personally give all three of you a lesson on decorum.  Now get in here.”  Jorah ordered.

The three Captain’s lined up beside Mereoleona who stood before the Wizard Kings desk.  Ellara closed the door and moved to stand behind Sir Jorah’s left shoulder.  She didn’t miss the way Julius and Jax watched her, though she was too upset to care.

Eyes on his Captain's, Jorah informed.  “Mereoleona visited the training grounds Greywright had taken the four Vice Captain’s to.  Instead of finding the Commander and Vice Captain's, she discovered an unknown dead man.  He’d been speared through the head by some as yet unidentified type of magic.  Leona reports there was no signs of struggle.  Magic Investigations was immediately sent to the scene but so far have yet to find anything that would tell us what happened.”

Whatever nerves Kess had felt disappeared in her concern for her Vice Captain. “Are you thinking they were taken?  All of them?  Nozel. Commander Greywright.”

“That’s what it looks like.”  Jorah said.

Julius glanced at Ellara, certain this was the Agents of Chaos’ doing. But the Advisor appeared truly unnerved.  Apprehensive even.

The Wizard King looked at the four Captain’s before him.  “We have not received any messages for ransom or any other kind.  Neither have House Silva or Vermillion.  With no messages and no clues found, we have no idea who took them or why.”

“To take all five of them without a fight, let alone a struggle.  It had to have been done through passive means.”  Jax said.

“Someone they knew?”  Kess theorized.

“Sleep magic.  Toxin magic.”  Julius said, thinking aloud.  “Spatial magic would have left a sign.  Small almost imperceptible.  But a sign nonetheless.  Same with a dimensional shift.  There’s marionette magic.  Or even blood magic.  But Commander Greywright has dealt with both enough to fight against it, if not break through such control.  There surely would’ve been some kind of sign of him doing so.”

“Yami and Teris too.”  Jax said, thinking Yami especially given his dealings with not just Iban but the Witch Queen.

“There are too many passive types of magic.  And that’s if one was use. We can’t go rounding up everyone with such types of magic.  We can’t even question them all.”  Jorah said, concern for his Commander making him wish he could.

“Let me go, Sir.”  Julius said.

Jorah knew what the Captain was thinking.  “Magic Investigations timed the mans death.  It’s been too long for you to see anything, Julius.”

“The least I can do is try.  We have no leads.  We have nothing.  Please, sir.  Let me try.”  Julius pleaded.

Ellara held her breath, hoping the Wizard King would agree.

Jorah nodded and rose to his feet.  To Ellara, he ordered.  “Fetch Cob.”

Ellara nodded and exited the office.

Neither Julius or Kess made a joke about Jax being transported to the bottom of the sea.  Ellara returned with Cob in tow.

“The scene if you will.”  Jorah commanded.

Cob opened a portal and they all walked through.

Jax took in the barren field.  The nearest hiding place was a tree line over three hundred meters away.  Unless the abductors had an invisibility mage, or Magic Investigations had messed up and missed the sign of spatial or dimensional magic, there was no way anyone could’ve sneaked up on them.  He wished he knew the range Yami could sense of someones Ki; though Jax knew it had a lot to do with Yami’s focus at the time.

Jax looked back at Julius seeing his friend had wasted no time in starting the spell.  Depending how far back he looked, it would leave him exhausted and empty of mana.  But if it gave them some clue as to what happened.  Some direction to begin their search.  It was worth it.

85.4

Useless as it was, Greywright pulled at his bindings.  He’d do anything to protect his Magic Knights.  “Rayla!  Don’t do this.”

“It’s a simple test, Commander.  Every hopeful in the Spade Kingdom must complete it if they are to become a Sorcery Lance.”  Rayla smirked haughtily at Greywright.  “Are you saying that your Vice Captain’s are incapable of surviving the most basic of tests?”

“We won’t play your sick games.”  Nozel told.

Rayla’s eyes flicked to the royal.  She left Greywright and stepped in front of Nozel.  “Once you’re in there you play or you die, Handsome. While it would be a shame to lose you so soon.  It really is no matter to me.  But, I suggest you and Teris complete the trial sooner rather than later.  For his sake.”  She looked to Nozel’s right at Yami and moved to the Black Bull, placing a hand on his chest. “Oh my.”

Yami jerked at the touch, not having noticed Rayla coming to stand before him.  He thrashed, trying to shake off her hand.

“You’re not doing so good.  Are you?”  Rayla questioned in mock concern.

Vision blurry, Yami glared at Magical Scientist.  Taking in an unsteady breath, he panted.  “I’m doing well enough to kill your ass. Your so fond of tests and trials.  Release me and--”  He blinked, spotty vision tunneling.  His lolled.

“Yami!” Teris fought against her bindings with renewed vigor.  She growled at Rayla.  “What did you do to him?”

“It’s not what I’m doing to him.  It’s what he’s doing to himself. You see those bindings are doing so much more than holding you in place.  They’re holding your mana in place.  Giving it no way to naturally breathe and release.  Instead, it’s building up inside you.”  Rayla turned to Teris.  “You must be feeling it’s effects too.  A feverish sense that’s making you tired, weak, and achy.  Almost as if you’re sick with a cold.”

Teris paused, realizing Rayla was doing the same thing Cin had done.  Did that mean Yami was close to losing himself and having the Darkness inside him take over?  After everything Greywright had put them through she was naturally tired, weak, and achy.  No doubt they all were.  But the feeling had grown considerably worse.  And now that she thought about it, this feeling was all too similar to how she felt when Cin had taken her.

Smiling at Teris, Rayla reached back running a hand over Yami’s chest and stomach.  “Having a full store of mana is a good thing. Overflowing with mana is amazing.  But having no way for mana to breath can be deadly.  Think of what would have happened if the mana building in you on the Summer Solstice had no way of getting out. Beautiful sight by the way.  Such an impressive display of power. Wish I had been there to see it, you must’ve been glorious.  But, you had your time.”  She turned, looking at the near unconscious Yami.  “His time is still coming.  While I don’t full understand it or agree with those nut cases, I intend to find the reasoning behind it.  Magical science can and will explain this.”

Teris watched Yami.  He was shivering, the beads of sweat on his brow frosting over.  “Let the excess mana out of him and I’ll play whatever game you want.”

“Teris!” Nozel yelled.

Teris glanced at him.  Nozel didn’t understand.  She would’ve done anything for Yami.  But in this case it wasn’t just about Yami.  In a way she was doing this for Nozel.  She was doing it for all of them.  If Yami lost control and the Darkness inside him took over, they all might die.  She looked at Greywright who gave her a less than pleased nod, seeing no other way.

“No.” Rayla said.  “First you pass the test.  Then I’ll give his building mana release.”

Teris pressed her lips together.  Yami wasn’t looking good and she had no idea what this test of Rayla’s entailed.  So much for bargaining.

With one last look at Yami, Teris fixed her gaze on Rayla.  “Fine.”

85.4.2

Next thing Teris knew, she and Nozel were standing in an arena, hands unbound.

Wanting to explain, Teris scanned the place and apologized.  “I’m sorry. It’s just--”

“Not now.”  Nozel snapped.  He stepped quickly to her, eyes darting about the arena.  “Can you light travel?”

Even if Teris was willing to leave the others, she couldn't light travel. She shook her head, rubbing her raw wrists.  That’s when she noticed it.  A metal band around her right wrist.

Nozel frowned at the foreign item around Teris’ wrist and inspected himself, finding he wore a similar one.  “Probably limiting or blocking our magic.”

Unable to pull the thing off, Teris raised her hand.  She launched a blast of light that tore a hole through the arena wall.  She tried to see passed the opening; but there was nothing.  It was similar to dimensional space, but different too.

The wall rebuilt itself.

“Probably limiting us to a point.”  Teris agreed.  “It would hardly be an accurate test if our magical abilities were limited too much.  And I think she truly wants to see what we’re capable of.”  She focused properly on Nozel for the first time.  “Are you okay?”

Though Nozel’s wound, where Rayla had cut a chunk out of him had stopped bleeding for the most part.  It still seeped.

“Yeah, cause you look so much better.”  Nozel said, looking over in her wounds.

Due to the nature of Teris’ magic her wounds had slowly cauterized themselves.  At least that’s what Nozel supposed the reasoning was. But the gouge and two deep cuts still looked quite painful.

Nozel looked down at his cut opened, stained shirt.  Beneath was the still oozing wound where a piece of him the size of a child's fist was missing from the left side of his abdomen.  “As soon as I start moving this thing is going to open up.  You think you can burn it closed without burning me to a crisp?”

With the heightened level of mana that was raw and storming from both her emotions and having been bottled up, Teris couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t burn more than needed.  But she would do her best.

“The only way to know is try.”  Teris said.

Nozel gave her an ill-humored look.  “That’s hardly reassuring.  Do it.”

Teris reached out tentatively.  “You—uh.  You need to lif—lift your shirt.  That is unless you want fabric burned into your flesh.”

Nozel looked at her.  His hands moved to the hem of his shirt and slowly lifted it, exposing a part of him he never thought he’d show her until they were married.

Teris’ eyes darted to the side, unable to stare into his crystal blue eyes any longer.  She thought about Yami and how they had to hurry. “Ready?”

Teris gave Nozel a second to tuck his tongue and grit his teeth.  She glanced at his uncovered stomach, looking away as soon as her hand was positioned over the wound.  Her hand began to glow.  Teris’ nose wrinkled at the smell of burning flesh that filled her nostrils. Just as she pulled her hand away, Nozel’s eyes went from a squeezed pain filled grimace to wide, worried surprise.

Nozel grabbed Teris.  He pulled her into his arms and turned, shielding her with his body in case he hadn’t been quick enough and something got through his mercury shield.  Teris didn’t even have a moment to take a breath before she sensed another attack coming.  She pushed Nozel down and didn’t bother taking the time to raise her hand to aim, the light appearing out of nowhere to hit it’s target.

85.4.3

Rayla watched a projection of Nozel and Teris on a vaporous cloud in the center of her lab and explained to her captives.  “Usually Sorcery Lance hopefuls will face such a test in teams of six or eight with one, maybe two individuals out of every dozen or so teams making it through unscathed enough to consider as having passed.  But, seeing as these two are royals and Magic Knight Vice Captain’s I upped the level of difficulty and did away with the safety measures.  At least one of them should make it through alive.”

Fuegoleon snarled.  “You sick--”

Rayla turned to Fuegoleon silencing his voice.  “Don’t worry, my Prince.  You’ll have a chance to prove yourself soon enough.”

“Rayla! You have to let Yami’s mana release.”  Greywright said, truly worried.

Rayla looked over her shoulder.  “I set the rules, Commander.”

“Meaning you can break them.”  Greywright said.

He knew he might’ve just set a dangerous precedent.  But at the moment it didn’t matter.  Yami’s body was burning up as his mana built. Greywright could feel the near overwhelming power.  No physical form was meant to house that much raw magical force.  No mortal body could contain it and survive.  At least not for long.

Rayla tilted her head as if considering the Knights Commander’s words.

“Yami’s your greatest interest.  If he dies all your questions go unanswered.”  Greywright reminded.

The Magic Knights Commander had a point.  With reports of Teris’ magic seeming to have normalized after the Summer Solstice.  Rayla’s main interest was in Yami, and the connection Yami and Teris’ magic had. It was the entire reason she had gone against her King’s command and sent Sorn and Lila to the Clover Kingdom.

Looking at Greywright, Rayla walked to Yami’s listless form.  “I tell you what.  I won’t release the bind that’s bottling his mana.  But I will give him a reprieve.  It should afford Teris and the Silva Prince an extra twenty minutes to clear the test or die trying. After that, it’s up to them to save Yami’s life.  And Yami’s willingness to hold onto that life until they’ve completed the trial I’ve set them.  You understand how these things work, Commander.  You’ve been in my lab before.  Without consequences, even ones that disappoint me, there is no obedience.”

Rayla grabbed a fistful of Yami’s sweat drenched hair, pulling and lifting his head.  Yami’s closed eyes barely fluttered.

She looked over her prized lab rat and cooed.  “You really are bad off. Aren’t you, handsome?”  Never taking her eyes off Yami, she told.  “I was wrong, Commander.  Your battling Vice Captain's have ten minutes, possibly less.”

Rayla lined up her mouth up with Yami’s.  She pulled in close, centimeters apart.  Mouth opening, she took in a deep breath.  A dense, dark purple, almost black cloud billowed out of Yami’s mouth and entered hers.

Greywright relaxed.  Even though Yami didn’t do more than take in a deep shuddering breath, Greywright sensed sizable portion of excess mana leave the younger man.

Rayla stepped back sputtering.  Her body felt as if it were bearing an infinite weight.  Her lungs burned from a biting cold.  She coughed out the mana she’d taken in, gasping.

Fuegoleon’s breath caught at the sight of Rayla’s eyes.  They were black.  Even the whites of the woman’s eyes were black.  Then she blinked and her eyes were back to their normal watery grey.

Shaking off the disturbing sight, Fuegoleon looked at Yami.  The Black Bull still didn’t look good.  Then again with as much as Rayla had cut into Yami, no one would.  While Yami had received most of Rayla’s focus, none of them had been spared.  None but Greywright that is.

While Fuegoleon wouldn’t wish such torture on anyone, he had wondered at the Commander’s exclusion.  That was until Rayla mentioned Greywright had been in her lab before.  If Commander Greywright had been in Rayla’s captive custody once before, that meant he had escaped.  Though Rayla had likely learned from the escape and taken measures to stop it happening again, it still gave Fuegoleon hope.

He looked away from the vaporous screen that showed Teris take a hit that sent her flying.  Turning back, Fuegoleon saw an attack break through Nozel’s mercury shield as if it wasn’t even there.  He grimaced in sympathetic concern when three magical spears pierced Nozel’s side, thigh, and shoulder.

A cold sweat broke out on his brow, his vision blurred for a few heartbeats.  Fuegoleon wondered if this was the first sign of the effects Rayla had mentioned.  If his own mana was beginning to build passed his body’s tolerance.  He looked at the Knights Commander to see him shivering with what he assumed was the same, only further along.

Greywright turned away from the image of a barbed chain wrapping around Teris’ arm and throwing her against the arena wall.  His eyes met Fuegoleon’s, noticing the Vermillion's color and sweat.  “You have to keep con--”

Rayla silenced Greywright’s voice.  “Let the young ones learn to survive on their own, Commander.  You did.  Think you’re better than this fine royal specimen?”  She moved to Fuegoleon.  “I always wondered about you Clover Kingdom royals.  Naturally endowed with such extraordinary mana and magical ability.”  She placed a hand on his chest.  “What else are you greatly endowed with?”

Fuegoleon jerked when her hand ran down his chest to his stomach.

Rayla plucked at the waistband of Fuegoleon’s pants.  “Care to show me the full weighty might of a royal prince?”

Fuegoleon saw Teris take another hit, and glared at Rayla.  “You’re dampening their magic.”

“I have to sweet one.”  Rayla said.

“Because you’re afraid they’ll win your little game?”  Fuegoleon accused.

Rayla bristled.  “I fear no one and nothing.  Not even death.”

“Funny you should say that.  Shall we put it to the test?”  A voice asked, their figure appearing in the middle of the lab.

Rayla spun around to face the intruder.  “Who are you?  How did you get in here?”

“I am Death.”  Alowishus said, as if that should’ve been obvious.

“Lila! Sorn.”  Rayla called.

Alowishus gave a small, slow shake of his head.  “They can’t hear you. They’re dead.  Which conveniently answers your second question. How we got in here.”

Rayla’s eyes narrowed.  “We?”

Alowishus looked to the screen which showed three others had joined Nozel and Teris in the trial arena.  “No one can leave until the trail is complete or all the combatants are dead.  Yes?  I wouldn’t have bothered sending in three of my people.  One would have sufficed in putting an end to your little game.  But, I couldn’t trust that Teris wouldn’t end up fighting her helping hand.  Even with her magic dampened to such a level.  She is a force that should be respected.”

Despite his getting in, Rayla was dismissive in her magics attempt to control the intruder.

Alowishus stared at her.  “You cannot control Death.  No one can.”

Snarling, Rayla extended both her hands and tried again.

Alowishus looked back at the image of the fight.  “My people are nearly done with your little test.  And I’m done with you.  Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s impolite to play with anothers toys?  At least your King understands.”  At Rayla’s expression, Alowishus raised a brow.  “What?  You thought your King feared that empty threat Jorah gave?”  He took a step and was in front of her so fast it was like he disappeared and reappeared.  “Yami and Teris are mine.”

Rayla fell back sensing the mans power.  It was more than Teris’.  More than Yami’s.  Possibly more than the both of them combined.  How had he managed to hide such a power; shield it from her senses until now?  What was even more frightening was that Rayla didn’t know if this was the full extent of his power, or if he was only showing her a hint of it.

Rayla scooted away from him.  “You—you can have them.  I’m sorry.”

Alowishus stared down at her without expression.  “No you’re not.  But you will be.”

Rayla gasped and begun to writhe on the floor.

Fuegoleon watched the horrifying scene, unable to look away despite his revulsion.  Rayla had experiment on them.  Tortured them.  She laid hands on and humiliated him.  Despite all that, Fuegoleon struggled against his bindings with renewed vigor in an effort to free himself and help her.

Rayla deserved to spend the rest of her days in prison.  She might have even deserved to be executed.  But that was for a lawful trial to decide.  She didn’t deserve to slowly wither and decay to nothing.

Rayla screamed and convulsed until she no longer could.  Even after she stopped, her eyes moved in their hollowed sockets.  Her body twitched, mouth still open in a silent wail of agony.

Fuegoleon watched Rayla’s eyes lose their sheen of life and stare vacantly at the man who had called himself Death.  Just when Fuegoleon thought he couldn’t be repulsed further, Rayla’s form cracked and crumbled to dust.

“From the earth you came.  So to the earth you shall return.”  Alowishus intoned, staring at the pile of dust that had been a living human mere moments before.  He turned and stepped to Yami, the hem of his cloak sweeping through Rayla’s remains.  “Look what she’s done to you, my boy.  Magical science.”  Alowishus scoffed.  “Unworthy, disbelieving fools.  This wouldn’t have killed you.  But it would have set you off before your time.”

He placed a hand flat on Yami’s chest and took in the excess mana. Alowishus shivered, wracked with pain as his body initially rejected Yami’s mana.  A purple-black cloud billowed around him.  Alowishus gritted his teeth forcing his body to soak the mana back in.

Slowly the dark cloud disappeared, drawn in by Alowishus.

“After being weakened from taking in the Light Bringers essence, I needed that.”  Alowishus muttered.  He looked over his shoulder at the scattered pile that had once been Rayla.  “I suppose your foolishness was good for something after all.”  He pulled off the charm on Yami’s bindings that stopped his mana from naturally releasing then made his way to Greywright and did the same.  “I trust you’ll recover in time to see the Vermillion prince is released before he burns up and dies.  Or not.”  Alowishus lifted a shoulder.  “It makes no difference to me.”

Greywright tried to break free of his bindings but was too weak.  The built up mana released from him far too slowly for him to regain the physical power or clear thinking that would allow him to access his magic.

Three Agents of Chaos appeared with an unconscious Nozel and Teris.

Alowishus looked at Yami and Teris, and told Greywright.   “Take better care of them, Commander.  I’ll be forced to take them away if you don’t. Trust me.  None of us wants them in my extended custody.”  He moved to his followers and ordered.  “Misandre.”

“Master.” Misandre lifted a hand, Bronn’s hand; and she, Alowishus, Himmel, and Yuric stepped through the portal.

Comments and reblogs are VERY MUCH appreciated and really make my day; so as a 'tip' for reading this free work please leave a comment if you enjoyed reading it.

Next chapter snippet:

“Death should not be here.”  The voice said, sounding offended and confused.

Alowishus looked about the black void that was somehow both substance and space.  Eyes fixing on Yami, Alowishus said in awe.  “This is you. Or a representation of the force within you.”

[krowedkraft]

wrote a mcd fic! you can read it on ao3 or through the read more :> hope ya like it! 

“Are you cold?” Laurance asked, raising an eyebrow at Garroth, who was currently hugging his arms to his chest.

“...No,” Garroth said slowly, hugging his arms a bit tighter. “Just… didn’t expect all this… snow.”

He nodded. “Well, as you should know, a good knight is always prepared,” he said with a grin, gesturing towards his own, warmer garb. Garroth scowled, thankful that Laurance couldn’t see it through his helmet.

“Whatever. If the Alpha was correct, we should be there soon anyways.”

They continued on for a bit, the only sound being the crunching of snow under their boots. Garroth was really beginning to wish he had brought warmer clothes. He squinted at the horizon.

“...Hey Laurance,” he started, “Am I going crazy, or is that a castle?”

Laurance looked up, blinking in surprise. “....Huh. I don’t think the Alpha mentioned a castle…”

“Let’s check it out, just to be safe,” Garroth said, walking a bit quicker now. He couldn’t help the anxiousness that laced through his tone like cyanide in a lord’s meal. He just hoped Laurance didn’t notice.

The pair peeked through the door, Garroth’s shoulders slumping as he saw the two tethered horses.

“Lady Aphmau must be here. Thank Irene…”

Laurance sighed with relief. Garroth grinned to himself, feeling a bit better about the fact that he wasn’t alone in his worry. His happiness was cut off soon, however, by the sound of stairs creaking.

Their heads shot up, both exclaiming in unison when they saw Aphmau… and when they saw who was with her.

“Hey! Get your hands off our lady!” Laurance shouted, gripping the hilt of his sword with white knuckles.

Garroth was beginning to think he’d never get rid of the feeling of dread that was setting over him as the two leaned in closer. He shut his eyes, only to hear a clash and a cry of pain sounding like it came from a child.

Garroth walked forward to meet next to Laurance, who was glaring (albeit a bit confusedly) at a small spectre on the floor.

“It’s… it’s just a kid. Where’d Aphmau go?” He asked nobody in particular, sheathing his sword.

As if on queue, a familiar voice sounded out from behind them. The pair whipped their heads around to see Aphmau on the ground, steadying herself and trying to get to her feet.

Before either of them could rush over to help her up, she was walking past them and towards the child spirit.

“Aphmau! Get away from him! That’s a spectre, it’ll hurt you!” Called a new voice, rushing to her side.

“Hey, Aphmau can take care of herself,” Laurance half-growled, stepping forward. “Don’t touch her again.”

“...Again?” The new man said, raising an eyebrow. “I would do no such thing.”

“Don’t act like we didn’t see you,” Garroth said warily, glancing at Aphmau, who looked just as confused. “I… uh…”

“That was just an illusion, Garroth,” Aphmau said, gesturing towards the spirit. “Malachi over here specializes in that kind of thing, apparently.”

“O-oh,” Garroth said, “So… you didn’t…?”

“No, of course not,” Aphmau said fiercely, in near perfect unison with the man. She glanced at him, chuckling awkwardly before turning back to Garroth and Laurance. “Uh, I guess an introduction is in order. This is Dante. Dante, this is Garroth and Laurance, two of my guards.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dante said politely, hands clasped in front of him.

“Are you a guard, Dante?” Laurance asked.

“Yes sir, I finished my training recently, in fact.” Garroth nodded in acknowledgement. He looked new, with his bright eyes and unscarred face. There was that fresh glimmer of hope and chivalry that comes with every knight, the new glow of a trainee, excited for the fight. It almost reminded him of…

Garroth clenched his fists. No time to think about that now.

“We should set up camp,” Aphmau said, “We can talk more then.”

---

“I don’t trust him,” Laurance whispered, narrowing his eyes in the direction of Dante. He was currently setting up a fire, Malachi watching in wonder.

“You’re only saying that because of the illusion Malachi set up,” Garroth pointed out.

“Yeah, and you don’t feel the same?” Garroth clamped his mouth shut. “I thought so. Anyway, he seems… weird. I don’t like how close he and Aphmau are…”

“All that matters is that she’s safe,” Garroth said, shutting his eyes. This entire trip was feeling like a headache.

Laurance looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Garroth. Come on.”

“I’m not dealing with… this today. We came to make sure that Lady Aphmau was safe and she is. Now, we can go along with her to the wolf tribe. She… she’s allowed to have other guards, you know.”

Laurance rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, dude. I’m gonna go talk to her, make sure she’s alright after all of that.”

Garroth sighed quietly, leaning against the wall. The woodgrain was slowly becoming the most interesting thing in the room, his eyes tracing it intently to keep himself from thinking about the events that had just occurred.

He knew it wasn’t real. Now he just needed to convince the twisting jealousy in his gut that it wasn’t.

“Hey, Garroth, was it?” Dante asked, suddenly standing next to him.

“Oh, uh, yeah, that’s me. Dante, right?”

Dante nodded, a smile on his face. “Great to meet you. I know our first introduction was a bit… awkward, to say the least, so I thought I’d come by and actually talk to you.”

As they spoke, Dante remained impossibly polite and friendly. He was curious about Garroth’s position as head guard, and fawned over his abilities even though he tried to put out a cool persona. He was quite charming, if Garroth were being honest.

“Well, it was wonderful to meet you,” Dante finally said, smiling. “We should probably be getting to bed, there’s a long day ahead of us.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. See you in the morning.”

---

Garroth sipped his tea, quirking up an eyebrow at Dante, who was currently struggling with a bow. He was already fitting in as a guard of Phoenix Drop, it seemed. Laurance was out on a morning patrol and Brian was busy, so it was just the two of them in the guard tower.

“Need some help?” He asked finally, getting to his feet and walking over.

“Ah, maybe just a little,” Dante said sheepishly. “I’m not used to a bow… sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, you have to hold it like this,” Garroth demonstrated, taking the bow and drawing it, “And--here’s a little tip--you have to aim a little bit up. Then, you let go, and…” The arrow went straight into the middle of the target. “Bullseye.”

“Woah,” Dante murmured. “You’re really good at that.”

Garroth chuckled, handing the bow back. “Yeah, I’ve got practice. You’re not the first I’ve had to-” he stopped abruptly, biting his tongue so that he wouldn’t say any more.

There was always something about thinking about Zenix that made Garroth feel like he had just been drenched with ice water. There was an ache in his chest, that old scar opening up as if another arrow had been shot through. He couldn’t forget it, not really. No matter how many memories faded away, his face was still there, always in the back of his mind.

“...Garroth?”

Garroth blinked, slowly coming back to reality. His hand ghosted over his chest, right above the old scar. “I… I’m sorry, what?”

“You… you cut yourself off there. Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Yes. I… zoned out a little there, heh. Sorry.” Garroth rubbed his eyes, scrubbing away the image of Zenix’s face. He always looked so happy when he hit the target…

Dante frowned. “...Okay, if you say so. Maybe you should sit down, you’re looking kind of pale.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Uh, yeah. That… that’s the basic idea of it, just keep practicing and you’ll get it. Good luck.” He stiffly walked back to his seat, tracing the chip in his mug and averting his eyes from Dante’s worried look.

The awkward silence thankfully didn’t last long, Laurance soon bursted in, complaining loudly about a muddy patch he encountered in his patrol that stained his boots.

“Wow, Laurance. A real guard would be always watching for any sign of danger,” Garroth said, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Fuck off, Garroth,” Laurance said with no real bite behind it, sitting down next to him after kicking off his boots.

Garroth gasped. “Laurance, language! There are children in the room,” he said, gesturing towards Dante.

“Hey!”

Laurance cackled. “You’re right, you’re right. Wouldn’t want to taint the youth of today with my dirty mouth.”

“Guys, I’m 24!” Dante protested.

Just like that, the situation was diffused. The tightness in Garroth’s chest was unwinding, the grief and panic leaving his system in peals of laughter. There was something almost akin to guilt wrapped in his relief, though, that creeping feeling that he was letting go of Zenix too easily. The feeling that he should be more sad over losing him.

That familiar dread was beginning to make its way up his arms, sending a chill through his veins. It quickly dissipated as a familiar, comforting hand was placed on his shoulder.

Laurance shot him a concerned look. Garroth tried his best to give a reassuring smile in return, but it obviously wasn’t very convincing based on how he grimaced back.

He’d deal with it later. It didn’t matter, anyways.

---

“Morning Laurance, Dante,” Garroth greeted, flipping another pancake as the two other guards wandered into their little kitchen area.

“Oh, thank Irene,” Laurance said, snatching a pancake from the growing mountain on the counter.

“Wow, I didn’t know you cooked,” Dante marveled, taking a pancake for himself and sitting down.

“You’re about to have the best pancakes you’ve ever had, Dante, trust me,” Laurance said, mouth already half full. “Garroth is an amazing cook. I don’t know why we don’t make him make breakfast more often.”

“You couldn’t make me if you tried,” Garroth said dryly, “And, I thought we deserved a bit of a celebratory treat because of the new guard tower. Don’t get used to it, though, I had to beg Logan to give me the chocolate chips.”

“There’s chocolate chips in these?” Dante asked, smiling in pleasant surprise. “I haven’t had chocolate chip pancakes since I was a kid. Thanks, Garroth.”

Garroth grinned, dusting off his flour-caked hands on his apron. He glanced out the window only to see Raven perched on a fencepost, preening his scales casually, a letter secured in his claws with a familiar, blue seal. It was a letter from Azura, Garroth realized. They often kept in touch through Raven, but it was only every month or so. Had time really passed that quickly?

“I’ll be right back,” he said, draping his apron over an empty chair and walking over to Raven with a spare pancake.

“Morning, Raven.” Garroth traded the pancake for the letter, which Raven took gratefully.

“Pancakes today, huh? I didn’t know you still baked,” He said. “I think I’ll be out here for a bit. Your guard tower gets a lot of sun.”

Garroth grinned. “It’s a great morning for a sunbathe. Enjoy it.”

“Is… is that a wyvern?” Dante asked when Garroth had sat back down.

Garroth nodded. “Raven. He sends messages for me. Have you not met him yet?”

“I didn’t even know there were still wyverns in the Overworld! Oh, and he’s golden too, he must be pretty powerful…” Dante marveled, leaning forward to get a better look. “Wow, he’s gorgeous!”

“You can go say hi, you know,” Garroth said, hiding his amused grin behind his cup of tea. “He’s a little shy, but wouldn’t mind too much.”

“Really??” Dante asked, eyes widened. “I… I wouldn’t want to disturb him…”

“Come on, he’s just sunbathing. I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

Dante nodded, getting to his feet quickly. “I.. I think I’m going to do that, then.” He walked so quickly that it was more of a run than anything, and as soon as the door closed behind him, Garroth and Laurance burst out laughing.

“He looked like a puppy,” Laurance said. “Raven’s gonna be in hell for the next ten minutes.”

“He got pancakes this morning, I’m sure he can deal with a little bit of attention. He secretly loves it, anyways.”

“It probably isn’t the first time someone’s fawned over him. If being with Ungrth taught me anything, it’s that wyverns are quite the conversation piece,” Laurance chuckled, a sad smile covering his features as he reminisced on the wyvern.

Garroth looked through the window to see Dante nervously standing near Raven, saying something. Raven was barely giving him any attention in return, eyes shut and head turned away, but the slight ruffle of his wings let Garroth know that he was actually quite content.

Dante, eyes widened in what he would probably never admit to being fear, hesitantly ran a hand along the ridges on Raven’s spine. He seemed to laugh breathlessly, admiring the beautiful shimmer in Raven’s golden scales.

Garroth was used to the shock and dread that came with thinking of Zenix. He had grown as accustomed as he was going to get to the tightness in his chest, the pricking in his eyes, the suffocating guilt. It was all just another part of his day at this point.

It was a bit of a shock when the thought of Zenix now didn’t come with a poison arrow, shot square in his chest, leaving branches of venom in its wake. There was no sharp pain just below his heart, no sudden lost breath. It was just… sad. He had been drowning before, clawing his way back to land, lungs filling up with water, but now? Now he had sunk to the bottom, accepted his icy, wet prison and let the saltwater and briney sand overtake him.

If previous instances had been the shock of a wound, he was rather certain that this was his bleeding out.

Garroth could see his face clearly, clearer than ever before. He was smiling, hair ruffled from being trapped in a helmet all day, poking out in all directions. He was muttering something about how beautiful Raven was, how wonderful his scales shone in the afternoon sun. He had never seen a wyvern before, and Garroth was struck with a strange sense of pride at being the instigator for his first experience with one.

Garroth could remember him looking back at him, that soft, boyish smile he rarely wore donning his features like a crown upon a king’s forehead, all golden and precious. He asked so many questions after that, hungry for more knowledge of the things, and Garroth was happy to indulge him.

What happened? What took those peaceful, happy moments and laced them with acid? Who took that smile and turned it into a grimace? What led Zenix from a beaming new recruit to a shadow knight, bow in hand, malice and anger aimed straight at Garroth?

Shit.

It was so bitter in Garroth’s mouth, that acrid bile that Zenix left behind. Even if he was still alive, it wasn’t the Zenix he remembered. It wasn’t that dumb recruit who barely knew how to use a sword. It wasn’t that apprentice who got excited over wyverns and hitting the edges of targets during archery practice. It wasn’t him. It never was going to be again.

And still, Garroth couldn’t help but miss him. There was something so bittersweet in the grief that clouded his mind; of course he was happy to have the bastard gone, but nothing would ever replace the bond they had. Zenix was like a son to him. Then, he--literally--shot Garroth in the back.

“Garroth?” Laurance asked gently.

Garroth looked up blinking away the stinging in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been staring at your plate for like, five minutes. Everything alright?”

He nodded quickly, wincing inwardly at how casually he was starting to lie about his mental state. “Zoned out, sorry.”

Laurance looked at him, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “You can talk to me, y’know. Pride is a big part of being a knight, but if something’s up-”

“I’m fine, Laurance,” Garroth interrupted. “Just… tired, I guess. Thank you, but I’m alright.”

“...Alright, whatever you say.”

---

“Wow, breakfast? For me?”

“Uh, yeah,” Garroth said, suddenly feeling a bit self conscious. “Since it’s your first day in Phoenix Drop, I thought you deserved a little… something extra.”

Zenix beamed. “Thanks, sir.”

“You can call me Garroth, you know,” Garroth said, laughing a little. “Uh, but… how are you? Are you healing up alright?”

Zenix nodded. “My arms still hurt a lot, but I’ll heal.” He paused, shuffling his feet embarrassedly. “Uh, thank you, Garroth. For everything.”

There was a twinge of something in Garroth’s chest when he said that. Guilt? Sadness? Anger? He wasn’t sure, everything felt… muddy.

The scene had shifted after he blinked. He was standing in front of an iron door built into a wall, inspecting the little splatters of blood dressing the cold metal.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to get in…” He mused to nobody in particular. Zenix was searching around the back, hopefully to come back with news of another entrance. He had been gone a while, though, Garroth was beginning to realize.

He ran his gloved fingers over the old wood that framed the door, feeling the bumps and ridges that textured its surface.

He tore his eyes away from the door, realizing that it would be no use to continue examining it as he had already been doing so for the past ten minutes. He stepped out into the field, gazing upon the setting sun and the colors that painted the surrounding clouds and skyline. There were horses grazing off in the distance, wind combing through the grass.

It was so peaceful.

Garroth closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the wind and the rushing water of the nearby river, letting himself relax to the sound of birdsong.

Then came the sound of a bow being drawn. Then came the pain.

Garroth had been hurt before. It came with the job, really, but the sting of this arrow piercing through his chest felt like millions of lightning bolts from millions of storms congregating in his nerves. His blood was hot, that sticky, lava-like substance pooling around him in the grass he had fallen face-first into.

He was falling, falling, falling. The shimmer of the sunset grew dark, a wine red tone that stained the sky like netherrack.

He was going to die, wasn’t he? That icy dread paired so well with the hot, blinding pain in his chest. It was so ironic. His last moments just so happened to be the ones he wasn’t on his guard.

Garroth awoke with a gasp, eyes shooting open to see the stone ceiling of the guard housing space instead of the open, red sky. The pain in his chest was quickly dissipating, leaving behind an icy cold ache where it once festered.

He slowly got to his feet, quietly shuffling out to the balcony. Damn sleep, he had decided. It didn’t do anything good for him anyway.

There was a hot pricking at his eyes. Garroth hated crying, he really did, but there was nobody there except for him and his thoughts, and the ache in his chest felt worse than usual.

He was so tired of it. He was so tired of feeling bad about someone that couldn’t feel remorse for his actions, so tired of seeing him in Dante. He carried it like a chunk of lead in his lungs, weighing him down and making it hard to breathe, but impossible to remove.

Garroth registered the creak of the door behind him, sure, but didn’t quite realize someone was with him until Dante sat down next to him.

“What’re you doing up?” Dante asked quietly.

Garroth lifted his head out of his hands, glancing back at him with bloodshot, tearstained eyes. He could try to lie, but it didn’t seem like much use.

“...Nightmare?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. Me too.”

It was quiet for a bit, the two leaning against the stone brick wall in a casual, drowsy silence.

“Y’know,” Dante started, a bit of hesitance lingering in his voice, “when I was young, my mom always said that talking about a nightmare would make it go away.”

“I don’t think talking about it is going to take away bad memories,” Garroth responded softly.

Dante sighed. “Alright. Can I talk about mine, then?”

“Go for it.”

Dante began to talk. He spoke of a man named Gene and the glint in his eye, the anger in his words, the malice dripping from his tongue. He spoke of his family, their confused faces after forgetting him etched in his brain. He spoke of shadow knights and of curses, of vengeance and heartbreak.

“The worst thing is,” Dante finally said, smiling bitterly at the cracked stone beneath them, “Is that I still miss him. He was horrible to me and my family, but I can’t help but feeling-”

“-Guilty?” Garroth finished, Dante mirroring the surprised face Garroth had been wearing all night. “I… I never knew. I’m sorry.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably. “I… could I talk about my dream too?”

Dante smiled a little, nodding. “Of course.”

Garroth spoke of his dream. He talked of Zenix, the betrayal, the red-hot pain that still hovered around in his chest, and (albeit reluctantly) of the way Dante reminded Garroth of him. He rambled about the conflicted pain, the way his brain was caught between grief of losing Zenix and celebrating at the bastard’s disappearance. By the end, they both had watery eyes, sitting in the shared grief.

“I didn’t know we were so similar in that matter,” Dante said, laughing tearfully. “Oh, Irene, help me…”

Garroth nodded, scrubbing at his eyes. “It feels good to talk about it, actually. Thanks for this.”

“Told ya.” Dante paused, sighing quietly. “I… I’m really sorry I remind you of him.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m just-- heh, I’m just being ridiculous, honestly.”

“There’s nothing ridiculous about grief, Garroth.”

Garroth pursed his lips, running a hand through his hair. “...Yeah. You’re right.” He sighed. “This… this really is shitty, huh?”

“Language,” Dante said, placing a scandalized hand on his chest. “In the presence of a young, impressionable guard as well! I cannot believe.”

Garroth snorted. “Oh, shut up. I deserve it.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Dante chuckled, staring up at the sky. “...Hey, Garroth?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for telling me.”

Garroth smiled. “No problem. We should probably get to bed, it’s late.”

The pair got to their feet and gave their respective goodnight wishes, shuffling off to their rooms with smiles on their faces.

The ache in Garroth’s chest had finally dissipated. The rest of the night was nightmare-free.  

Garroth wasn’t over it, and he wouldn’t be for a long time, but there wasn’t as great a weight on his back.

He had spent a long time drowning, and a long time thinking that it was always going to be like that.

Maybe he was going to reach the shore after all.