#Sun clarion throated

[exitwound]

Throwing Children by Ross Gay

[loressa]

Composition in Sunlight

----

I breathe in deeply and rest my arms on the window sill, slowly exhaling the smoke in wispy tendrils; it disperses on the wind, spiraling off into the distance. From my window I can see the mountains lighten toward the ocean, the dichotomy of light and shadows shifting until they melt back into the dark. 

Close to me are the tall thin cypruses with a rich golden backlight. Narrow and gaunt, they move softly in the morning breeze like some shimmering jazz singer swaying to the minor chords of a junk piano, with tarnished brass trumpet notes hanging dimly around her lidded eyes, lingering in the hollows of her curls. Dawn clings to the branches, light dripping close through the leaves, and I watch the music, the players, the cigarette smoke undulating in time with the beats of the drummer and hips swaying and my heart melting slow, languid to catch it as the cars coast slowly past in the dawn. A gust shakes the trees – a group enters the club with a laugh and a slam of the heavy door, their feet clinking on the tinny basement stairs – and a lonely leaf drifts down like a descending melody swathed in the clarion keen of a clarinet. 

And now the sun has risen and the drummer rolls his wrists and the cars speed up, people shouting to be heard over them in the parking lot underneath my room. The palm trees bend toward each other and the couples spin past each other on the worn wood floor in front of the stage. The bass plucker and the man with the gravelly voice start to banter lyrics and now the day has fully broken, a smooth tenor soaring above the street outside my window. With a thud, a car door slams shut, signaling a shift to a pounding, plunking beat of bass and drum and dance intertwined; and, bright above it all, the vocals wheel. 

Noon, now, and you can’t help but nod your head in time, start to tap your foot, sway in your seat, hands shaking, feet stomping, hoots and whistles and only the hottest couples left dancing, the music blistering, throats screaming trumpet wails of appreciation, cymbal shrieks, and then the silence before eve and only the ragged breath of exhaustion as they sink back into the shadowy audience. The street holds its breath as the sun hangs bloody crimson and brass. 

The singer returns, the strings of the bass bump dolefully along as she ascends to the stage, the piano’s plucks slow, soft, and then the brass begins to whisper. The audience lights another cigarette and in their first exhale she murmurs lyrics, streaks of cloud and dripping light. They order a drink, and the waitress slinks off, her skirt swishing above her knees, and they take another drag on the cigarette, the slow detached high pulling them toward the music; her voice starts to climb the scale, the music shifts to major, and, the cigarette gone, where did this song come from, only hints of the original mournful sighs, a screaming howl of glorious jazz, and then it ends, fades away softly back into night. 

The mountains sink back into dark, the trees sleep, shaken half-awake gently by the headlights of cars drifting lonely at midnight; only the singer is left, and the cigarette smoke, and the empty wail of a solitary trumpet. 

[elliewiltarwyn]

FFXIV Write 2023 | Prompt #21: Grave

shockingly came easier than the last several.

-1392 words -content warnings: angst/comfort, grieving

----

It would have been much easier to use a spade, or even the tip of my greatsword. Somehow, though, F’lhaminn and I land on a silent agreement to only dig with our bare hands.

It’s not what she would have wanted, I’m sure; I stifle a chuckle as I imagine her admonishing us for making things so much more difficult on ourselves, for no discernible benefit. And indeed, it’s rough work, and F’lhaminn’s hands aren’t quite as calloused as they used to be, and I’m fairly certain both of us break some few of our nails, and we’ll be picking dirt out of our cuticles for days afterwards. Neither of us utter a word of complaint, though. How could we possibly? After everything you’ve sacrificed… isn’t this the least we could do? Honestly, it’s probably not even enough for that.

Eventually, F’lhaminn deems the shallow grave deep enough; any more, I muse, and we likely risk disturbing Warburton. She digs into the pocket and draws forth the gift we received in Ul’dah; a small, simple catseye gem, pale blue. Slowly, reverently, carefully, she places it in the direct center of the dip. Its shine has dulled, but it can still catch the rays of the sun, still gleam somewhat. F’lhaminn exhales and gently sits herself on the ground before the epitaph; I wipe my brow and sit next to her.

“It was twenty years ago that Warburton came to Ul’dah, risking life and limb to warn us of the encroaching threat on Eorzea.” F’lhaminn closes her eyes, letting the tears stream freely. “Twenty years ago that my ambition robbed him of his life, and a daughter of her whole family.”

“You know you have far more than atoned for any perceived sins,” I say softly, and I gently scoop her hand into mine and squeeze tightly for emphasis. “And that… she found new family.” She clasps back and nods. We sit there silently for a while, letting the breeze tousle our hairs. The little gleam there is fades from the gem. The sun begins to retreat behind the rolling mountains on the horizon, and the hot desert air begins to cool.

 “You would have been so proud of her, Warburton,” she intones, soft and reverent; she curls her free hand before her, closes her eyes, dips her head. “She was a warm, compassionate, and vibrant woman, full of boundless love for the star and its people… and her family. Always ready to answer the clarion call of duty without a moment’s hesitation, just like her father. In the end, that selflessness would save not one, but two worlds. Now her duty has ended, and though you are worlds apart, I pray that with this stone, this precious gem from Ascilia, a part of her remains at your side… just as she remains forever in our hearts.”

I never knew her as Ascilia… What I would have given to do so…

F’lhaminn’s head remains bowed in silent prayer, and I dare not move or disturb her. Eventually, her fingers curl tighter, and a sob wells in her throat—but she soldiers on. “My dear Ascilia… Never did I imagine that such greatness could be born from beginnings so humble. I am proud beyond words to have been there for that first little triumph. You didn’t just find a gemstone; you found your own path. That path took you far away, to a place fraught with danger… but there, you achieved all you have ever desired, and now you have returned. Rest now… my dearest daughter.”

We sit there quietly for something like several minutes as my mind races, as everything plays back through my memories—from that initial meeting in the Waking Sands, alongside Mia and Lily, to the last smile and the soft touch of her lips as she faded into the light to become one with the girl who would be Ryne. 

Eventually, F’lhaminn brushes her thumb over the back of my hand. “Won’t you say a few words too, Ellie?”

I blink the tears that have come so far from my eyes and raise my chin from my chest. I stare down at the catseye, my heart feeling as if it’s on fire.

I am now and forever so proud of you, my champion… my jewel. To see you happy and full of love again brings joy to my heart. Do not ever lose sight of the strength that grants you. And know… that my eternal blessing always goes with you.

The last words she had said to me, and the long-overdue kiss that had preceded them, haven’t vacated my mind for even a moment since they happened.

“Even in the end, you were still only thinking of others,” I murmur. “It’s… unfathomable how all-encompassing your love was. It’s sometimes unfathomable that you thought me worthy of your love, your blessing.” My teeth unconsciously grind against each other. “And… every day, I curse that you couldn’t reap the benefits yourself, because you were so inextricably bound to your duty.”

I loosen my jaw and shake my head. “I know you never would have had it any other way, and I know it was so critically important to perform that duty. And… I’m always going to be so proud that you were the one who shouldered that burden.” And the tears begin once more. “...Just as I will always mourn that there was no other choice but for you to shoulder the burden. And that… that precluded us from becoming more. That that precluded me from knowing not just Minfilia… but Ascilia.”

F’lhaminn places her other hand over mine, now holding me with both of hers. I inhale deeply. “But I can’t grieve forever, because… then I’ll never see the dawn that you worked so hard to bring. And… I won’t squander the chance you gave us to live that dawn.” I press my fist to my heart. “We will venture forth and bring that dawn to those that we can yet save. You can leave it to us… and rest now.”

My throat heaves. “...My love. My… Minfilia…”

And I fall forward and slam a fist into the ground next to the small divot in the earth and the dam shatters into pieces; I sob, heavily and deeply down to my soul, as it all breaks loose, as all of the raw grief that had been building ever since the bloody banquet roars in pain. It’s everywhere, it consumes my whole body from head to toe, but finally I let myself feel it, let it flow into my heart and tear it to shreds, knowing that somehow it’s going to survive and rebuild itself, and in doing so the grief breaks free. As it finally vacates me, I remember every smile, every soft touch, every soothing word from her lips… the desperate kiss she had placed upon my knuckles before she turned and ran back down those waterways… and the singular kiss she shared with me in that realm of light before becoming one with Ryne.

F’lhaminn’s arms wrap around my shoulders and she holds me tight as I shudder and weep. My fist uncurls, and I let my arm fall and hang uselessly at my side. I stare at the catseye, remembering how, that first night when she got it back from F’lhaminn and showed it to me, it refracted every little bit of light that touched it. Set those rays of light forth on their own paths.

I wouldn’t be everything I am today without you, my love.

Eventually, the tears subside, and I push myself to move once more. With F’lhaminn’s aid, her gentle hands alongside my own coarse and scarred, we sweep the dug earth back into the hole whence it came, piling bit after bit upon the catseye until its dull shine is no more. We sit there on our knees, hand in hand.

“I know you literally heard it from her,” F’lhaminn says softly, a bittersweet but warm smile on her face, “but I know she is so, so proud of you, Ellie.”

I sniff, breathe out, and nod. “I know.”

On the whispers of the wind and the rays of the new moonlight, I smell something soothing, warm, full of light, and even through the tears, I can’t help but crack a smile at its touch.

[splitmyheartlikerottedfruit]

I'm falling. If I know anything at all, it's that falling is bad and rarely ends well. The wind--and the ground I can only presume--are at my back. Above me is a blank and violet sky, studded with a caustic sun.

I twist my head around to get a better look at the ground, but fighting the wind is impossible and my hair whips up around my face, stinging my eyes.

To my side I see flashes of something metallic, a pale gold that catches the sun and bites at my eyes unpredictably, making it impossible to fix my gaze. If it is a sword, and I can get my hands on it--but when I try, the resistance on my arms upsets my center of gravity and I pitch groundward, catching the first glimpse of how I'm going to end. I make one last grasp for the object, but it evades me again.

I mutter a curse as it occurs to me: what would I do with a sword, anyway? My stomach floats up into my throat, the terrible anticipation slowing time, making every impotent flail and thrash of my limbs feel slower and even more useless.

"Don't worry, it will only hurt for a moment," a clarion voice rings in my ear, undistorted by the rushing air. "I am sorry." It almost sounds sincere, but then I am screaming and there is something on the ground and I think--

--the ground reaches up to meet me and there are no more thoughts to be had.

[aevallare]

In honor of ur old username may she rest in piece. Do u have any mass effect fic recs

oh!!! you come into my inbox and ask me for my mass effect recs? :o

they are many. they are spectacular. they are occasionally (often?) NSFW. okay. let's do this. let's go. if you have a specific pairing, please come back and i'll try to be normaler <3

OKAY

i'll assume you're here because you've read my own mass effect fics, but i guess i'll start there? xd

i'm really proud of lionhearted and i hope to return to it soon. f!shrios, thane lives AU - evangeline shepard is ripped from the grave and unsure if she's the same woman that she was before. and she's right to worry. ongoing, because i'm the worst, but i've written through me2!

i also have a few assorted one-shots:

metamorph (f!shrex ft. smut)

help wanted. (tali/miranda)

exposure (f!shrios pwp)

alright. i'm done self-shilling. have some unbelievable work by people more talented than me.

Sound the Clarion by AmberPenglass

f!Shakarian and an all-time comfort fic. first contact AUs are basically the whole reason i'm alive, and this is one for the history books. shepard infiltrates the vakarian household as a... servant? i guess LOL to make contact with a human resistance cell on palaven. there's some squicky power dynamic stuff in here, so be aware of that going in. smut in here also! complete.

like a falcon in the dive by @spookyvalentine

i'm thinking about mercy shepard like. well. basically all the time? these are a couple of genfics and val has UNBELIEVABLE character writing. mercy is vibrant, and they pop out of my computer screen and into my heart whenever i read these fics. ongoing series, but the fics themselves are complete.

When The Sun Sets On The Dune, You Know Where To Find Me by WonderAss

this fic. dude. god. okay.

f!shreegar. is that anything. it's shepard and kal'reegar and i've reread it probably four times. kal'reegar joins the crew in me2. he's dealing with some stuff. this shepard absolutely rules. nsfw in here! complete.

An Atom Changed by 35g

shrios. this fic grabbed me by the throat and didn't let up. 14k words of holding my breath. tw for some general existential dread. complete.

Relay Monument Incident by Kahika

what's. what's the name for garrus and ashley? vakilliams? gashley is WAY worse. garrus and ashley rip in this series and i will recommend it to anyone not immediately put off by rarepair sensibilities. there's smut in here! ongoing series, but each fic is complete.

Queen's Gambit Accepted by RenWritesStuff/FahRENheit2006

f!shaynor. oh, this fic. deep breath. i'm normal. i've always had a soft spot for samantha traynor. ongoing, but it's 200k words of exquisite writing. there be smut! ongoing.

Trajectory by ad_astra42

f!shakarian. first contact AU. exquisite. astounding. so, so worth the read. garrus is taken captive, and well, you can imagine how things go from there. all our favorite marines are there, and many of our favorite turians as well. shepard and garrus communicate with ASL for a significant chunk of the fic, and the whole fic is written quite deftly. nsfw occasionally. complete.

[shorteststory]

This week's story is Skysong by special guest Michael Matheson!

Michael Matheson is a genderfluid graduate of Clarion West ('14), with work published or forthcoming in Nightmare, Shimmer, and Augur, among other venues. They also co-founded and co-edit Anathema: Spec from the Margins, a tri-annual speculative fiction magazine of work by Queer/Two-Spirit POC/Indigenous/Aboriginal creators. Find them at https://michaelmatheson.wordpress.com.

TRANSCRIPTION:

The Voice is not for you. It sings with words meant for other ears.

They roar through you, these glacial tides, to crash on other, further shores. Every augury a sluice of change, of brilliant, blazing roil in a world gone mad. One where mountains sing, rivers climb clouds out of atmosphere, and freed firma drifts through firmament. An endless, glorious upheaval. Your body caught in ceaseless skytide, further changed with every note.

The others left drift into and out of your orbit. Each begging tasks for the Great Work, while you rise a second sun, the one above gone black in a cerulean sky filled with impossible, planet-eating shadows.

And with every whisper rung from a co-opted, ravaged throat, you beg without words: when will mercy be given? When will you crumble, at last, to dust?

But the Voice never answers you, only others, as it sings eternal.

[californiannostalgia]

In honor of The Tower of Nero’s Loser Gods, here are my favorite Greek God character study snippets from Were I That Burning Star and a fact easily forgotten (we named our crowns ourselves) that I loved writing most.

.

Artemis

Her voice began to climb. "Century upon century upon century of loss, and we changed. We are everlasting, and they are not. Did you honestly expect us to endure it without going mad? Do you truly think I did not weep for my loved ones, and for the thousands of souls I never gave myself the chance to know?" 

.

Hermes

It had been May’s choice that drove her to madness. It had been Luke’s choice that drove him to his death.

It’d taken him a long time, but Hermes had come to terms with it. He couldn't have saved them. Their fates had never been his responsibility. It had always been theirs. He would mourn. He would remember. But he would not dishonor them by regretting the choices they’d made for themselves. Regret was a choice that belonged to them. Whether to love them, their choices and all? That was his.

.

Aphrodite

It was a burden, but at the same time, it was a blessing. They could offer her a throne, the world, a weapon for her hands and the promise of respect—it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t trade away this Love for anything.

.

Ares

Athena was here.

"Yes," he said.

The war goddess had come to face him.

"Yes," he said again, then roared, “YES!”—in approval, in delight, in uncontrollable exhilaration that burned like wildfire through him. He summoned his broadsword and drew the blade from the scabbard in one clean motion, the sharp sound of slithering steel serving as his own clarion note of challenge. “YES, ATHENA!”

.

Athena

She fantasized about it. When the day came, she would fight her fiercest against the justice of a rising world order. She would fight and she would lose, but part of her looked forward to the end. When responsibilities both wanted and unwanted left her shoulders, would she still be herself enough to look her newborn counterpart in the eyes and pull them closer to whisper, weighed down with pride and sorrow and all the complications newborn deities had no hope of understanding, “I was justice once”?

.

Hephaestus

“Their hatred made me something else," he acceded, thinking of Hera and the throne he'd engineered to be a trap. "Something I did not want to be. So I sought to get myself back, but couldn't remember what that looked like."

He fitted the new parts into place. He tried to say it right. "Maybe there is no kinder original of myself to reclaim. Maybe they killed that. But I have been. Trying. To be something other than what they made me. I think that matters, somewhat. So I don't believe I will become them.” Hephaestus weighed his words. "I don't think he ever noticed, or tried, to be less him. So I don't believe you will be anything like him either."

.

Dionysus

“We chose wrong,” Ariadne said, “but I am content with where I have arrived. I have enjoyed moments I would not have had if I hadn’t chosen wrong.”

Dionysus closed his eyes. She smelled of honey and old books and dusty paths traversed by very few.

“I have regrets,” the goddess of the labyrinths said, “but I do not regret you. Do you regret me?”

“No,” he said.

.

Hestia

Hestia still remembers the day Rhea nudged them outside, father and newborn. Immortal children are born walking, but Kronos offered to hold her hand. They found themselves a shady spot at the edge of an overgrown forest, and he told her the story of how her uncles had claimed the four corners of the world as their own. She remembers being entranced—not by the tale, but by the way his voice slowly climbed in excitement, his face and hands taking on a life she hadn't seen on him before. He smiled upon the conclusion of the story. She asked for another.

Hestia remembers Kronos in a way her brothers and sisters do not. It is a curse she will never share with them.

.

Demeter

"I did not choose my lovers to become a parent. I did not want to be a mother. My mother did not wish to be a mother, either. Reproduction is an unfortunate side-effect of intercourse." Demeter smiled bitterly. "My mother’s life was consumed by her children. I believe she hated us as much as we hated her.”

Apollo remembered Rhea and her tie-dye headbands—her warm, callused palm on his forehead, absorbing his pain. “That isn’t true.”

“Love and hate aren’t mutually exclusive, nephew. I can love her for her kindness and hate her for failing to save me. She can hate me for the sorrow I brought upon her, just as much as she loves me for the joy.” Demeter raised an eyebrow. “As an insignificant mortal once said, we contain multitudes.”

.

Hera

No, she thought with vitriolic fury, no you don’t. She had spat curses into Kronos’s face as he had unhinged his jaw. She was no coward. The Titans had not managed to cow her. She would not be cowed by her husband.

She concocted the most poisonous curses and bestowed them on his demigod children. Here is what I think of your legacy. She arranged the most painful deaths for his mortal lovers. Here is what I think of your infidelity. When he came to her in a rage, she pushed him into a wall and tore at his lips with her teeth. You do not scare me, she thought, high on adrenaline and victory.

“Do I scare you?” she asked, giddy with the power she had discovered for herself.

.

Hades

After the victory, there must have been a reason—when they drew straws to divide the world, and Poseidon looked like he had been saved and Zeus looked like he might smile—there must have been a reason he didn’t contest the draw. Must have been something that made him say, yes, I will take the underground.

He held the keys to the prisons incarcerating their most hated enemies—himself acting as jailor, judge, and executioner—and only then did he realize how utterly satisfying it was to have the proof of his safety be himself.

.

Poseidon

He embarked on the war slightly crazed and considerably scared. He ended the war entirely too crazed.

The sea swallowed him up and he devoured it back. The white-capped waves and salty shores became his lungs, his heart. Fault lines and volcanoes ran on the heat of his blood and the force of his temper. The ocean’s depths were never dark, not in a way that he feared. He raced with his passions and raged as a storm. He laughed at the world that knew to fear him.

Learning kindness came later. Much, much later.

.

Zeus

Tomorrow he might close his eyes and trace the King Cannibal’s palace etched on the backs of his eyelids. Tomorrow he might feel an immovable weight crushing his chest and pushing down his shoulders.

But today he held up a hand to shield his eyes from the southern sun and kept looking up, tracing clouds and chasing falcons. He pictured leading his brothers and sisters back out into the sunlight. He imagined lying down in the grass and having his siblings sit beside him. He was unable to visualize their faces, their height, the way their hands might move when they spoke. But if he succeeded—when, not if (it was foretold, he could do this, he would)—maybe he could learn.

He stared up at the bottomless blue sky and dared to dream of freedom.

.

Apollo

I looked upon the carbon duplicate of Demeter's apathetic despair, crystalized into a glass jar holding lightning. I realized I was exhausted of trying to be heard by the thing behind the glass walls, because he wasn't ever going to hear me, was he? Not really.

"I used to love you." A painful lump got stuck in my throat. I swallowed it down.

My father kept staring.

"I hate that I was born as your child," I said as a farewell, and I walked away.

[avatar-the-last-jerkbender]

eyelash

an AranKita ficlet

Falling in love with Kita was nothing like a movie.

Or even what Aran had experienced in his previous relationships.

There were none of the butterflies, none of the fireworks and giddy, euphoric joy that came with liking someone new.

His feelings crept over him like a vine, tendrils curling unnoticeably around Aran from his toes to his throat until he was choking, too late to remove the growth without losing a part of himself.

In hindsight, loving Kita as more than a friend had been a long time coming. He found himself feeling the unfamiliar spark of jealousy when Kita innocently put a hand on one of their teammates’ shoulders or leaned near them to look at the whiteboards they used to plan plays. Aran had been able to identify his envy easily enough. But he hadn’t been able to place it, hadn’t understood exactly why he was jealous of his teammates- it wasn’t as though Kita neglected him.

On the contrary, they were probably closer to each other than the rest of the volleyball club. Their companionship probably came with the territory, from knowing each other since they were first years with volleyball-shaped stars in their eyes (Aran was the one with stars in his eyes. Kita remained as placid as he always was.), from being captains on and off the court, from essentially co-parenting a group of people surprisingly inept at everything other than volleyball, from walking home after school together, the setting sun painting the sky in pinks and reds and purples.

It was probably a combination of the little things, the small moments and memories, which played a part in Aran realizing he loved Kita. He’d filed the jealousy away in his mind, citing it as irrationality on his part. He remembered telling Kita he didn’t need a reason to feel things- if he was happy he was happy. Kita had laughed at him, a clarion call for Aran’s attention, shoulders shaking and eyes crinkled at the corners.

Aran didn’t need a reason to feel things. He didn’t need a reason to be jealous or crave Kita’s eyes on him or mentally go oh shit when Kita said “Aran you have an eyelash on your face,” before softly brushing a calloused thumb over his cheekbone and holding it in front of his lips. “If you make a wish and blow on the eyelash, it’ll come true.”

Aran stares at the offered thumb without comprehension, still trying to process the sudden realization of his feelings. “What,” he says stupidly.

“It’s a Western superstition,” Kita explains, as patiently as when he’s telling Atsumu to stop overworking or Suna to stop slacking but with the slightest hint of amusement, the right side of his mouth tilted upward in a small smile.

Looking into calm gold eyes, Aran is hit with the sudden clarity of what he wants. He has no clue if the gods are watching. He has no clue if anyone other than Kita is watching. So he blows the eyelash away, wishing Kita a long, happy life filled with love.

[its-sixxers]

Tandreth and the Dragon

Idunn, Dragonborn, has Tandreth, Grandmaster of the Thieves’ Guild, as her captive. Taking him to Windhelm for judgement after he fails to steal from her, fate has different plans in store - and a lifelong thief makes a choice of selflessness that will change his life forever. A hero dies, and another lives.

--

Tandreth’s nose had begun to itch.

The bruise the great ox of a woman in front of him had given him was starting to fade, and with healing flesh came the itch. He wanted to scratch it desperately, but his hands were bound - and the woman in front of him held his leash. Idunn, her name was - not uncommon among Nords, and though she was a little smaller than her kinsmen she made up for it with her bullheadedness. All he’d done was try to snatch the silver amulet around her neck - and she’d taken it upon herself to drag him back to Windhelm to be prosecuted for it.

They were only just within the border of Eastmarch when she’d caught him, and three days on the road saw them making slow progress through the jarling’s hydrothermal plains. Three times he’d attempted to escape, and three times he’d been pinned to the ground with her fist raised and threatening to break his nose.

He liked his nose - it being intact was a point of pride for him, and so he resigned himself to managing a prison break from the Stormcloak’s cells.

Tandreth kicked a pebble down the path in front of them, knowing it would annoy his captor. It was all the rebellion he was able to have - bothering both his captor and her horse. The beast was a beautiful dapple-grey, beloved by its owner and loaded with saddlebags. He wondered if it was her only friend in the world, and was tempted to say so - but decided that such a cruel remark was best saved for when he needed to cut with words. 

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had much room to talk. He hadn’t even a horse - long lived as he was, animals died quickly. Men only died slightly less quickly. Loss was something he’d spent his life trying to avoid - he’d tasted enough of it.

His gaze followed the line of rope from his bonds to Idunn’s free hand, resentment bubbling in him. It was all a giant waste of time, yet here they were - a thief, an ox, and a horse. The start of a bad joke travelling north to Windhelm, the stench of Eastmarch’s hot springs thick and pungent as overcooked eggs.

“Could you just save me the trouble and kill me here?” he finally broke the silence, resentment boiling over. “My feet hurt, and I think the stench is going to drive me mad.”

“Then you can greet Sheogorath for me.” Idunn said dismissively, his attempts to annoy her sliding off as ever. It was like throwing snowballs at a wall. “You made your choice.”

“Do you arrest everyone who gets up to a little mischief?”

“I try to uphold justice where I can. What you did was not mischief.”

“I was only trying to see if I could. I wasn’t actually going to steal your trinket. I’ve just been sitting on my laurels, you see - taking a necklace from a sleeping woman was a challenge. I’d have placed it neatly on your nightstand and left a reassured man.”

“Is your ego that fragile?”

“Yes.”

Idunn turned her head at his answer, frowning humorlessly. He hadn’t seen her smile once since their trip began - though he knew his ribbing wasn’t helping matters there. 

“You know, I’ve been purposely tied up in more compromising situations than this.” Tandreth continued, knowing this line of conversation made her uncomfortable and relishing in it. “I admire your tenacity with how tight you’ve made these bindings -” He wiggled his hands for emphasis, his wrists itching from the rope tied around them. “- but I could teach you a more elegant -”

Idunn stopped in her tracks and raised her hand, and with a thrill he thought she was going to hit him. He quickly realized it was meant to quiet him, however, as a faint noise echoed in the distance. For once he decided to follow her instruction, curiosity keeping him silent. The noise happened again - thunder, he thought, though there were no clouds in the sky. Idunn’s already pale face went a little paler as the thunder went on longer than Tandreth had ever heard in his centuries of life - and then the thunder did something thunder never did.

It changed in pitch, as if alive. As if a roar.

His captor dropped the rope she led him by and unsheathed her hunting knife from her belt. If it were anyone else the gesture would have him running, but Idunn was a Nord, and killing a bound opponent would be a black mark against their ever important honor. Fool’s honor, in his experience.

To his surprise, her knife cut through his bonds. Tandreth smiled in relief and rubbed at his wrists, but his good humor was dampened by yet another roll of roar-thunder. Idunn took the reins of her horse in hand, and he thought they were going to ride to safety - but instead she thrust them into his hands and pointed to a rocky outcropping some distance off the road. It was ringed with great standing stones, offering more than enough cover for both him and the horse, and Tandreth connected the dots before Idunn gave her instruction.

“Hide. No matter what. If I die, wait until the beast is gone.” she spoke, just as he saw a black figure rise over the mountains in the horizon. Idunn saw it too, and sharply inhaled - a fool might think the figure a bird, but at such a distance it was far too large. 

Tandreth had heard the rumors, but never had he thought he’d see with his own eyes.

A dragon.

“No, no no.” Tandreth said quickly. “You don’t fight something like that. We need to ride, find shelter- “

“It will find me.” Idunn replied just as sharply. “Hide. Trust me.”

Hiding was what he was best at, but trust was something he never gave. Still, the shadow in the sky was growing larger and he wasn’t so willing to throw his life away as she was. Tandreth sprinted to the stones, another louder roll of thunder cracking through the sky - the sound was closer yet still a mix of the natural and organic, elements interweaved. Idunn’s horse followed him without him needing to tug on the reins, likely as terrified as he was.

He glanced back to see Idunn still standing in the path. She’d drawn her warhammer and held it in both hands, staring defiantly upward at the approaching shadow in the sky like something out of the wall carvings in so many old tombs. Tandreth turned his focus back to the path in front of him, dreading what he’d see next.

He made it to the stones just as the wingbeats of the dragon became audible. The standing stones were purposely placed, he realized, for there was a weathered and ancient shrine within their borders. On an old stone altar he recognized the small statue of Akatosh, carved from pure obsidian. For a fleeting moment he smiled at the sick humor of it before the great beating of wings filled him with fear once again. He flattened himself against the stone of an arch, Idunn’s horse sheltering under it with him, and against his better judgement he peeked around its side.

The dragon was close enough that its shadow fell across the path Idunn stood on, so large it made Tandreth’s stomach flip. Its scales glinted in the sun as it circled overhead - it must have spotted Idunn, for it roared so loudly his ears rang. To his horror, it dipped downward midflight, approaching the ground at a speed far too fast for such a large creature. 

Idunn stood fast even as the beast opened its mouth, and Tandreth bit his tongue to keep from crying out as a stream of flames shot out from the back of the dragon’s throat. Liquid fire spilled forth aimed directly at Idunn - but before they made contact she shouted in a tongue he’d never heard of or known. Her voice was like a clarion bell, powerful and clear - and to his awe the flames flowed around her as if around a shield.

It was then he realized Idunn was dragonborn, and a new kind of horror settled within him.

Tandreth had known another chosen by fate, and he knew what fate did to such a person. The familiarity made him want to jump in the saddle and run, but he knew he’d long since missed his chance.

Instead, all he could do was watch Idunn and the dragon do battle. The creature was huge - judging by the tension in Idunn’s stance, it was larger than even she had seen. It kept trying to blast her with flames, but she kept up with its attempts with startling reflexes. It was a shouting match, her clear voice answering each rasping roar. Eventually the beast seemed to tire of her antics, and settled on the ground to do battle with tooth and claw. It tried to bite at her, its great jaw snapping like cracks of nearby thunder - but it earned a warhammer to the jaw each time for its trouble. Idunn swung her weapon with precision, striking the same point on the beast’s jaw each time. Tandreth realized her focus was an attempt to crack the beast’s face plating, hard and shining like steel.

Idunn’s last hit managed to crack the faceplate open, scales and dragonflesh falling to the ground. It roared and took off before she could drive her hammer into the exposed flesh beneath, and Idunn roared back in frustration. 

The next time the dragon opens its mouth a great wind echoed out with its cry, nearly knocking Tandreth from his post. Idunn stood firm - she shouted back with a blast of wind of her own, the power of her voice causing the dragon to waver in the sky. 

Tandreth understood with terrible clarity the tales of Ulfric shouting Torygg to pieces. Such power he’d never seen in his life - not even at his sister’s hands, the knowledge of Ashlands magic at her disposal.

Idunn was tiring with each shout - he could see it in her posture, how her warhammer seemed to be growing heavy in her arms. He could hear it in her voice - it was growing hoarse and weak. For a few minutes he thought, ridiculously, that she might have a chance against such a creature. Now he realized he was likely to see her die.

He looked around desperately for escape routes, a familiar panic settling in. It wasn’t fear for his own life that had him wanting to run - he’d been fearing death the past few minutes and stayed rooted to the spot. No, there was something else that filled him with greater fear than anything else, a fear that was rooted in his bones.

He didn’t want to watch her die.

His search for escape was quickly routed, however, for the dragon landed again, clearly sensing Idunn’s flagging stamina. The next time it roared, Idunn screamed in pain with it - he watched the flames break through her shouted shield at the last instant, the heat so intense he could feel it from his hiding place and staggering Idunn. The dragon followed it with a swipe of its claws, peeling open her breastplate as if it were scrib chitin. Idunn staggered back before falling to the ground, her warhammer clanking against the worn cobblestone.

It was over. Tandreth knew that if he remained hidden he had a strong chance of survival - Idunn had told him as much, had instructed him as much. At first he’d followed her instructions gladly, thinking her a fool - but she hadn’t died instantly to the dragon. She wasn’t a fool. She was dragonborn - and perhaps if it wasn’t for him distracting her and wearing her down, she would have succeeded in her battle.

If he did as she said, he knew it would result in her death. If he didn’t, it’d result in his.

Helplessness was a feeling he’d spent over a hundred years running from, and now it had settled over him in force. Tandreth’s bow was tied to the saddle, but for all of his years of experience - for those golden days he was his tribe’s star hunter, an aspiring ashkhan - against the dragon’s steel hide even his arrows would be of little use.

There was nothing he could do, and yet he did not wish to believe it. 

Help. His heart shouted as loud as Idunn did. Daedra, ancestors, someone, please -

Tandreth’s thoughts were cut off by a sudden flash of light, blinding him. The dragon roared again, and he thought it was over well and truly. But there was no snap of bone, no heat of flame, no rending of steel. When he regained his sight there was a ghostly armored figure walking away from him toward the dragon, shining silver as the moon and holding a spear blazing bright and fierce as the stars.

A spear he knew. A lump formed in his throat. He had summoned ancestor spirits out of fear before, but never one he recognized. The ghost could be one of two of his blood - and he hoped desperately it was the elder.

The dragon stood over Idunn’s prone form, its attention diverted toward the ghostly figure - and Tandreth. Its wings raised, beating as it began to take off and sending great gusts of wind with each sweep. Before it could lift into the sky, however, the ghostly figure threw its spear. It pierced the dragon’s wing, and on making contact ignited the entire limb with flame. The dragon screamed rather than roared, and fell back to the ground.

The ghost approached the fallen dragon and pulled its spear from the wing while the dragon howled on the ground, the magical flames fading and leaving a melted mess of scales and flesh in their wake. The dragon tried to snap at its new opponent, but its teeth only moved through the ghost’s ethereal form.

In spite of himself Tandreth squinted against the ghost’s shining light, trying to make out its features. It looked like an Ordinator, those guards he’d seen only in childhood and illustrations - but the armor was too old, too well-worn. Tandreth knew who the Ordinators were meant to emulate. He knew the figure before him was too slight, too small to be the patriarch of House Indoril himself. He realized with ice in his veins who the ancestral spirit was.

The Nerevarine.

Mother.

It had been sixty years since she’d last been seen, and now her ghost stood before him with her spear in hand. The woman who had killed a god. Dead.

She watched the dragon thrash and raised her spear up once more. With careful aim, she threw it at the beast’s head. The blazing spear pierced where Idunn had broken the beast’s faceplate, moving through exposed flesh and impaling it through the skull. All at once, the dragon’s roars were silenced. It collapsed to the ground in a limp heap.

His mother’s ghost pulled her spear from the creature’s skull and turned to look at him. Tandreth could not see her face under her helmet, but he didn’t need to. She lifted her free hand and placed it over her heart, a farewell he’d seen so many times. A gesture she’d made at the docks, over and over, leaving him and his sister behind while she tried to save their people. Tandreth wanted to cry out, to scream at her for leaving again, for leaving forever - but only a moment later her ghost faded.

In the sudden silence he could hear Idunn whimpering in pain, sounding the opposite of the powerful figure he’d seen shouting down a dragon. Setting his roiling emotions aside, Tandreth scrambled over to her frantic horse, doing his best to calm it so he could grab a healing potion from the saddlebags. With the potion in hand, he turned to run over to Idunn - but the sight that greeted him was extraordinary enough to stop him in his tracks. 

The dragon’s scales and flesh were turning to glowing mist, flowing down toward Idunn. He watched transfixed as the mist wrapped itself around her like a cloak, flowing into her eyes, her nostrils, her mouth. Idunn tipped her head back, gasping and shuddering as the essence flowed into her until only bones remained of the great beast. With the mist gone, Idunn collapsed fully to the ground.

It jolted Tandreth back to action, and he raced toward her. Blood was pouring out from the tear in her breastplate, and he feared she had a punctured lung from how she was wheezing. Tears of pain were streaming down her face, but she was trying her best not to whimper.

“Here.” he said, kneeling beside her. He uncorked the potion and placed his hand on the back of her head to support it - momentarily marvelling at how such a warrior had such soft hair, the auburn strands a contrast against his dark blue skin. He tipped the potion bottle to her lips with his other hand - shaking from adrenaline. All sensation was heightened, the sight he’d just witnessed sending his mind reeling. Idunn drank the healing mixture greedily, and gained a small amount of awareness. It wasn’t enough - not nearly enough - but it’d keep her from death’s door for a little while longer.

“You should have run.” she said weakly - using what little strength she had to speak. It echoed his own thoughts only minutes ago - but she was not scolding him. There was pride in her eyes beyond the pain. He hated it.

“I’ve seen too much death.” he responded quietly, so quietly he hoped she wouldn’t hear. He raised his voice. “You need a good healer. The nearest ones I know are at the temple in Windhelm.” The temple of Talos, another hero-god, another alleged dragonborn - and Tandreth fought against what felt like fate’s hand.

Idunn was pale before the blood loss, but seemed even paler in that moment. Windhelm was still days away, and he knew she feared how long the journey would take. Yet her expression turned to that same stubborn one he’d seen when he first met her, when the innkeeper questioned why she was taking a petty thief all the way to Windhelm. She nodded. Idunn tried weakly to unfasten the bindings on her torn breastplate so she could move, but Tandreth nudged her hands away and started to do it himself.

“I’m not going to steal your armor.” he reassured her, at the sight of her wide eyes. What would Raansi do, he thought, trying to remember his sister’s methods as a healer. All he could do was offer Idunn a smile, an attempt at normalcy.

It worked, and she blinked back her tears of pain while he worked the breastplate off of her. There was a great gouge taken out of her lower chest, and it was bleeding heavily - but her armor had protected her from the worst of the dragon’s wrath. If he could get her to Windhelm before infection and fever claimed her, she’d survive. Tandreth hastily untied his silk sash from his waist, binding her ribs with the colorful patterned fabric. It cost as much as her warhammer, he was certain - and he was staining it with her blood.

“You’re… a strange thief.” Idunn murmured, face ashen as she watched him work. Her green eyes were growing unfocused. Time - Akatosh’s domain - was not on their side.

He decided he hated dragons.

Tandreth looped his arm under her shoulders and helped her to her feet, struck by the weight of her as she leaned against him. Even with her injured, her warmth and solid form against him was oddly comforting - it had been too long since he’d allowed another to touch him, since he’d touched another, and he missed the feeling of safety. He needed to make haste, or her warmth would fade. “I’m a lot of things, dragonborn.” he grinned at her, joking to take the edge off his nerves. “I’ll take strange over the other things you’ve called me.”

Idunn managed a weak laugh as he helped her to her still-nervous horse - and it’s a wonderful sound to his ears, her smile softening her hard features into something quite pleasant. It took all of her energy and a boost from him to help her into the saddle, where she wavered dangerously in place. He gathered up her dropped warhammer and breastplate and quickly affixed them to the saddlebags. By the time he did so, Idunn was slumping forward in the saddle. He hastily put his foot in the stirrup and took his place behind her, taking the reins in hand. His arms were at either side of her body, keeping her steady even as consciousness faded from her. 

“Stay with me, dragonborn.” Tandreth remembered one thing from his sister’s lessons - that as long as Idunn was conscious she had a better chance to fight the punishment her body had taken. “If you die I’m taking your things.”

There was a murmur of protest from her. He tapped his heels against the horse’s flank, and the mare quickly began to move, eager to leave the dragon behind.

Tandreth glanced back at the bones, and the cracked skull his mother’s spear had penetrated. He swallowed - he wanted to leave Idunn in Windhelm with the priests and flee back for the comfort of the Rift, but the ghost he’d seen had reignited his flagging sense of duty.

His mother was dead, and his mind was fleeing from the grief approaching him like a black fog. But he couldn’t run - not when he wasn’t the only one who suffered. Not when he wasn’t the only one who needed to know what he had seen.

Tandreth’s journey would not cease at Windhelm. He couldn’t turn back after seeking help for the dragonborn however much he wished to.

For the second time, he was to head to Winterhold with grim news.

For the second time, he’d watch his sister’s heart break.

The Nerevarine was dead, and her twin children were the only souls left alive left to grieve her.

[acequeenking]

Hadestober #13

13) Take My Hand - Persephone goes down to the Underworld for the first time after Orpheus manages to get it right. (T, Hermes & Persephone, Hades/Persephone)

Persephone drinks the summer away. Doesn’t trust the man to hold to his own promises, not anymore, not after having been burned so many times. She drinks away a good half of May, June, and even July.

“Might want to slow down, green thang,” Hermes says, gives her a weak little smile. She gives him a sharp-eyed glare.

“Sooner or later, he’s likely to ruin it.” She sips down her whiskey, good and burning. He’d introduced her to whiskey long ago: ‘fore that, she was more liable to get drunk with something out of her mama’s wares, a little wine, a little potash. “Always does. Kinda his job, you know, ruinin’ things. Entropy’s a bit of a bitch.”

“Your man don’t seem to have ruined everything.” He flicks his head over at Orpheus and Eurydice, his little boy and their runaway-now-staying-put, giggling over at the bar. Persephone remembers being that much in love. Eurydice thumbs Orpheus’ suspenders, and Persephone’s heart cracks a little bit at a familiarity she can just barely remember feeling.

“A stopped clock is right, once or twice.” She shoots back, then swallows down her liquor.

“All I’m saying is…” Hermes waves his hand, with a weariness she doesn’t think man has any right to feel. Isn’t like they’ve been in circumstances such as this before. “Nothing will change if you don’t try.”

“I’ll try,” she says, after guzzling down the last of her whiskey. “When and what I feel like.”

“Alright,” Hermes’ says, and says it a bit sad, and there’s a twinge in her chest there, knowing as always that he is her closest brother, and she is somehow fucking this summer all up despite his caring. Mama always said there’d be days like this. “Just think about it, for me? For him?”

His eyes gravitate toward the young couple: Orpheus holds out his hand, and Eurydice takes it, smiling like she ain’t just had to walk out of hell not two months ago. Persephone wonders, idly, what Eurydice did with those old worker’s clothes. Probably burned them.

She would.

“I’ll think about it,” she says. “Best I can do.”

“That’s enough,” Hermes says, but the tone says it plain: no, it ain’t.

Persephone drinks her way through a variety of infrequently sampled delights through September. Been rare, right rare, for her to be up so late, thanks to Mr. Lover-I-Was-Lonely, Mr. Lover-I-Was-Despairing no longer showing up so early, by some miracle, well, she has some time to burn and preferably burn down some of her gullet with it. Hard cider ain’t never been her favorite, but it’s a good novelty and she sips her cup while she mulls Mr. Hermes’ words right up til it’s time ot wait for Mr. Hades clarion-bell.

Because the thing is: Hermes is not half-right. Persephone doesn’t owe her old ball and chain much; ask anybody downstairs, and they would tell you – well, after you pour a little firewater in’em –  that their lady has been the one dealing with most of his bullshit, not the other way around.  Her problem is one that they keep dancing around, because she can’t bend herself down to get out of it, no matter how much he wants her to: six months up, six months down. Holy route, and they’ve all seen what happens when she doesn’t keep to schedule.

Man might as well ask brother Paulie not to make the sun shine. Some things just ain’t – ain’t malleable. Fixed. And her husband just isn’t built to be able to accept it for long.

Except, of course, that he seems to be awful quiet. So mayhaps he finally has.

“What’s he doing down there?” She asks, half-fearing the answer, because there are a lot of desperate women and now she is well aware that he’s willing to look for replacements if pushed far enough. Asks it casual of Hermes, asks it over her gin and tonic, fizzy with hope. “My old husband.”

Hermes raises an eyebrow at her. “Think he’s waitin’ for you.”

“And how, pray tell is he waiting?” She takes a drink, presses the subject.

Hermes just shakes his head. Refusing to give up the goods, and odds are good the reason is that Mr. Hads himself is holding him to such. But it isn’t out of nature for Hermes to play coy.

“Waiting alone,” Hermes says, quiet. “I’ll say that much.”

She gives him a sour look and he just laughs, won’t say more.

“Just wait and see, green thang. Wait and see.” She sips at her drink, but she doesn’t feel like drinking. Lousy old Hermes just seems to suck the fun out of it all.

“I don’t do well anymore,” she says, quiet. “Not with his surprises.”

“Maybe it’s not a surprise,” Hermes says. He reaches out, holds her hand for a good long moment, squeezes it, drops it. “Maybe it’s just what it is, sunshine-sister.”

They don’t talk a long while after that; Seph spends her time watching Orpheus tend bar, Miss Eurydice helping him out by serving the patrons. But, since Hermes gets relatively few customers, well, it’s mostly Persephone playing looky-loo and watching the kids make eyes at one another. She wonders: were they ever like that? Himself and herself? Were they ever quite so innocent? She doesn’t think so. Himself was jaded from the beginning, and well…she weren’t far behind. Always been the type to just cling to what she could take and not expect much more than that. Cup half-empty kind of girl, you know? Kind who always has to fill her cup, least she think too much about herself.

She stares at Eurydice, perhaps a bit overlong; girl blushes at the attention and moves next to Orpheus, who holds her so easily, and for a moment, Persephone feels a bright jealousy take ahold her heart; been many a year since her husband has done more than hold her hand in public. Was a time when she made that mountain of a man bend to kiss her.

Hermes must see the despair on her face because he tuts and grabs her hand once more.

“You know how rare it is, for a man to know how good he’s got?” Hermes says, in a low voice. “Even the kids, simple as they are, can’t tell a good thing too often til they lose it. Trust me. I been around. I know.”

“Your point?” Persephone might be almost as old as time, but it ain’t necessarily made her patient. Critical flaw that seems to flow through most of her kind.

But not Hermes.

“It’s a miracle, ain’t it?” He smiles, a little too pointedly, old Hermes. “To love someone so much you fear the second they ain’t in your sight.”

“Starts off feeling romantic,” Persephone says dryly. “But trust me, Hermes, it gets old, being appreciated like that.”

He looks at her; nods twice more. She looks at the serious look on his face and notices, for the first time, how his suit is looking a little bit more threadbare than it used to.  Didn’t he used to have some feathers round that jacket? Seems a time she could recall him being proud of such.

“Can’t tell you that your reasons against him ain’t good ones,” Hermes says. “Lord knows, you two have had your ups and your downs. More downs than ups, I know. But take it from a man who ain’t never – never felt that urge to tie myself down—”

She rolls her eyes; only thing to do, with such an uncomfortable speech. Never liked these big emotional speeches; give her a moment’s tic or tell. The unsaid, brother, sometimes says it a lot more comfortably.

“Well…” Hermes cleared his throat. “Seems to me that it’s rare enough, two people finding one another like that, falling out and then in love, over and over again. Almost miraculous, right?”

“We’re gods, if you believe in miracles at this age…” He cuts her off, with one elegant hand.

“I believe in optimism. Always got a chance of turning better, sister.” His eyes glitter. “If, perhaps, someone gives such a chance…”

She bats her hand away. “Maybe I’ll consider it,” she says, finally. She stares down at Orpheus and Eurydice: Orpheus holds out his hand, and there’s the girl, grinning, taking that hand, so easy, so easy. Maybe that’s youth, she thinks, that slip of hand in hand, so easy, not weighed down by history. Or maybe it’s love, where you ignore the weight of it all because you believe, for one moment, that weight shared is weight eased.

And as she tries to think of a return, a bonmot, a repartee to Hermes’ great big speech, well, she don’t get the chance. She’s silenced as a high train whistle roars.

Hermes flips back his fancy sleeve, checks his watch. “Right on time, sister,” he says. He rises. “Best be goin’.”

And Persephone, well, she thinks: suppose it’s time. She grabs her coat, and it feels heavy on her shoulders, if smaller than the gordian knot in her belly. Hermes offers her his arm, ever the gentleman, but she shakes her head, not in the mood to share.

She’s a bit drunk, and she doesn’t need any distraction besides her husband himself.

“Orpheus,” Hermes says, too casual: “Watch the bar.”

She looks behind, sees the kids smiling at the bar. Doesn’t seem like they’ve heard at all, and for a brief, bitter moment, she envies them. Then she’s out, and she’s walking.

And the train door is there all too quickly.

And a man steps out all too fast.

There’s nothing different about him in particular: same white hair, same dark eyes, same Cheshire smile, same obnoxious glasses. He thinks they make him look young, but they don’t. She stares at him carefully, neutrally: he smiles, flicks off the hated glasses.

And she sees in that moment how his eyes tick, the nervousness that is evident in them; sees the redness of his ears and cheeks, the heavy breath that tells her that he’s been thinking of this moment for dozens of hours. And it’s that, more than any speech of Hermes’ or any glimpses of the young ones, that renders her heart softer towards the man: the way that hand shakes just a lil’ bit when he reaches for her, because he’s nervous. Mr. Hades is a mighty king, but she reduced him to a man once. Seems liable she might be able to again.

“Hey,” he says, the most neutral of all openings. She’d critique it but she, too, struggles to find words, the snappish openings of so many years having erased the old kindliness.

“Hey,” she says. Disgusting neutral, careful in a way they’ve never been. But neutral is safe, and maybe she takes his hand and grips it, and maybe he doesn’t mention the alcohol on her breath, and maybe when he pulls her toward her, well, maybe his hand doesn’t feel heavy after all.

Maybe she’s a fool for thinking that, but she does, and when he leans close to give her a kiss on her cheek after how-long, well: she believes, she believes.

“Let’s go home,” she says. And she holds him tight, and she steps on that train, and they go together to parts simultaneously too-well-known and too-unknown all at once.

But at least they go together.

[snarkymonkeyprime]

@magic-ramen​, I managed to dredge up the beginnings of that constantine!destiel!au.  I PRESENT IT TO YOU NOW.  :D

  Castiel wasn't quite clear on what he was doing any longer.  Since meeting Desmond, he'd been wandering in a haze, following along after the man like an obedient dog.  All that felt real was the man's voice, all silken softness.  It curled inside him, pulling him one way and then another.  Back at his home, he sighed, fingers nerveless as Desmond licked his neck.  It felt . . . odd.  Not sensual.  Not erotic.  Dark and foul.  He tried to rouse but the heaviness only doubled, his vision wavering.  Had he really drunk that much?

He tried to recall but the night’s events were a blank. He didn’t even remember how he’d met Desmond.  Or where. All he knew was Desmond.

"What's this?" Desmond asked, tapping the notepad opened on Castiel's desk.

Head moving like an automaton, it took Castiel a moment to ponder what he asked.  His dream journal.  A silly idea he'd kept with since high school.  "Dream," he murmured.  He wanted more of Desmond's touch.  Not the questions.  Right?  That didn't sound correct but he couldn't parse why.

"Dreams?"  Desmond licked his neck again, dragging sharp teeth along hot skin.  Something wet dribbled down Castiel’s neck.  "What dreams, little Castiel?"

Castiel's fingers fell from Desmond and he sagged, feeling an arm cold as iron around his back.  "A man," he rasped.  "And light.  It calls to me."  

Why couldn't he see any longer?  His den was well lit, wasn't it?  Why did nothing but shadow come back?  "I . . . it calls me.  He calls me."

Desmond's fingers pierced his arm, hot like pokers.  He might have screamed, if his mouth worked.  Maybe he did scream.  

"Who is he?" Desmond demanded.  His voice no longer warmed Castiel with passion.  It stung like ice, harsh and vile.

"Dunno," he admitted, slurring.  The only consistency had been the man’s appearance.  Tall, brown hair, green eyes.  A shroud of nightmares around him even while he shone like the sun.  And then the light of blue that reached for him.  Cut through the man and tugged at Castiel.  The dreams had begun to plague him following his thirtieth birthday two months prior.  Hadn't stopped since.  Could almost hear the voice during the day.  

A hiss of sound.  A laugh?  "Oh, pretty thing.  You tried so hard this time, didn't you?"  Desmond's tongue burned as it scraped down Castiel's cheek.  "Don't worry, little bird.  I'll make sure you can't feel it when I rip your intestines out."

Desmond’s hand drove into Castiel’s stomach, tearing skin. Castiel grunted, even as blood fell in runnels down his groin and thighs.  Desmond’s hand clenched inside him and only then did he cry out, though it erupted broken and weak.

“At least this time they sent a pretty weapon.”

Castiel sank into shadow, his body leaden, head swollen with darkness.  His head cracked against his desk.  He knew he should fight.  Wanted to fight.  But the will to do so bled out of him like oil, heavy and slick.  And like the clarion call of a hawk, green shattered the shadows.

His body shook in echo of the violent noise that erupted.  Screaming.  Someone screaming, though it gurgled and bubbled.  Something warm and wet spilled down his cheek and he groaned, struggling out from the poisonous weight that pulled at him.  Vision tilted, he saw Desmond; or, rather, what was left of him.  

The lower half of Desmond's face hung crazily, teeth shattered and bone split.  But Desmond, rather than fall, only narrowed vile red eyes.  Though his jaw was nearly gone, Desmond's voice boomed in the bright room.

"You dare?!"

"Yeah, I have that problem sometimes," came a new voice.  The sound of a gun's hammer drawn back.  "You look a little uneven.  Think I should fix that?"  Another blast, shivering through Castiel's very bones.  To his bleary horror, Desmond's ruined jaw lay on Castiel's chest and had he the ability, he would have retched violently.  Instead, he groaned and rolled, falling from the desk Desmond had pinned him to.  Sprawled on the wood floor of his den, he squinted, trying to see the newcomer.

The familiarity cut through his stupor.  Tall.  Brown hair.  Green eyes.  It couldn't be.  Could it?  "It's . . . you," he rasped, his voice little more than a whisper.  Green eyes swung to him, brighter than the lights above.

"Juliet," he called, wariness leaving it sharp, "guard."

A shadow darker than night shifted into Castiel's line of sight.  It reeked of sulfur and stone.  Heat poured off like the burn of smoldering coals.  Twin red eyes, shining like hellfire.  Castiel reached up, touching shadow, feeling a tongue that burned like acid.  He tried to see the man who'd saved him.  To thank him.  But the shadows had returned, softer this time as they crowded around him.  

Castiel swallowed, trying to call out, even as he heard Desmond scream in rage.  The sound of a violent struggle.  All too soon, though, Castiel could hear nothing but a thunderous heartbeat out of the darkness.

~~*~~

When Castiel woke, his gut burned.  He gasped, eyes snapping open only to shut immediately.  Bright, sterile lights.  Glaring walls.  Not his den.  Not his home.

"Mr. Novak?"

An unfamiliar but kind voice.  Castiel tried again, squinting at the speaker.  Tall, brown hair.  Dressed in a suit and overcoat.  The man held out a dark wallet with a badge and shield.  Not the green-eyed man.  He didn’t recognize this one.

"Mr. Novak, I'm Agent Sam Winchester."  He retrieved his badge and tucked it into his overcoat.  Pointing to another man, this one slim and blond, he continued.  "This is my partner, Agent Balthazar Elgin."

Castiel frowned and rasped, "Police?"

Agent Winchester smiled sourly.  "FBI, actually.  Your coworker, Anna, called your attack in.  She apparently stopped by your home this morning when you didn't come to work."

Licking his lips, Castiel continued to furrow his brow.  "Why . . . is the FBI interested . . . in what happened to me?"

Agent Winchester took a deep breath.  "The man who attacked you?  Desmond Reynolds?  He's a wanted serial killer.  You're the first to survive."  He pulled out a small notepad.  "Can you tell me what you remember?"

Shadows.  Fire.  Dreams.  He lifted a hand, dismayed to see an IV rammed into the too-pale skin.  He vaguely remembered being stabbed.  Shot?  He shuddered.  No, this Desmond, had thrust his hand into Castiel's stomach.  His fingers crawled across the clean white sheets.  He could feel thick padding beneath it. How had he survived?

"Mr. Novak?  Desmond was long gone by the time we got there.  He apparently believed you dead."  He cleared his throat.  "Actually, we're lucky Anna found you when she did."

No, that wasn't right.  Someone had been there.  Someone had saved him.  He mumbled as much to the agent.

The man smiled patiently.  "We only found evidence of you and Desmond; and, well, Anna.  No one else was in the home."  He glanced past his partner to the uniformed office that stood in the doorway.  "We have witnesses that saw Desmond intercept your glass at the bar.  We think he drugged you in order to make you his next victim."

It hadn't been that.  Desmond had simply touched him and he'd slipped into a sickly fog.  While in the throes of it he couldn’t recall what had happened, but now, away from the man, he recounted everything.  He’d stopped at a bar for dinner.  Had only stepped inside when Desmond came up to him and touched his hand.  After that, it was as though he watched all that happened from hundreds of miles away.  He could recall with eerie detachment how Desmond had gored him.  He'd fallen against his desk, legs gone.  Blood warm and slick around him.

Castiel opened his mouth to say as much but stopped at the sharp look of warning in the agent's eyes.  He swallowed and shook his head.  "I'm sorry," he husked.  "I can't really remember much."

"Well, I'd say it's a simple case of our lad getting sloppy," Agent Elgin commented.  He smiled at Castiel.  "Lucky for you, you took quite a wound but, not that deep.”  He folded his arms.  “All the same, we do ask you stay in touch, hm?”

Castiel nodded, confused.  “But . . . it wasn’t a knife.”

Balthazar’s eyes sharpened, as though in caution.  “Not a tiny one, no.  Rather large, by my judge.”  

What?  Castiel didn’t protest, however, given the expression on the agent’s face.  “Oh,” he replied, sagging in his bed.

“Dramatic git, I’ll give him that.”  He patted Agent Winchester on the shoulder.  "I'll speak with our darling locals, Sam."  With a flip of the fingers, he slid out the door, taking the officer with him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Agent Winchester tucked his notepad away and shoved his too-long hair off his forehead.  He looked at Castiel gravely.  “What did he use?”

Castiel shivered, still seeing his own insides in the man’s hands.  “His . . . hand.”

Sam winced.  “Shit. I was afraid of that.”

“How?”

The agent pursed his lips before walking to the door and checking that it remained secure. He ignored Castiels question and asked one of his own.  “You saw him, didn't you?"

"Who?"  Startled by the sudden change, he clenched his fingers atop the blanket.

"Dean.  My brother."

"Your . . ?"

The agent took a seat at Castiel's bedside and rubbed his face.  "Brother," he mumbled.  "Dean.  Tall, like me.  Brown hair.  Green eyes?"  He snorted.  "Smartass loudmouth?"

That definitely rang familiar.  The eyes stuck out for him the most.  He nodded.  Lifting a hand, he waved it around his chin.  "Desmond's jaw . . . was . . . it was gone."

"But he still spoke, didn't he?"

Shivering, Castiel nodded.  "What was he?"

"I don't know what they're called; Dean calls them every name in the book but what they actually are.”  He sighed.  “Balthazar and I were sure Desmond would be one of them; I’m just sorry you had to witness it, too.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed.  “I don’t understand.”

Sam jerked a thumb to the closed door.  “It’s Dean who usually gives us a head’s up on these things; even though he stays away for the most part."  He leaned back, his fingers laced over his stomach.  "He’ll leave a clue of some kind, though, when it's not a normal crime."

That didn’t answer anything.  Why did this agent appear to know what Desmond was?  Why did both of them?  And just what was Dean and the shadow that followed him? "What did he want with me?"  

"You'd have to ask Dean that," Agent Winchester squinted at Castiel.  "Come to think of it, I'm surprised he hasn't shown his face yet.  He's kind of arrogant.  He'd want you to know he saved your ass."  The agent said it with warm amusement, however.

But, Castiel should have been dead.  What had this Dean done to save him?  He remembered, vaguely, dark smoke and brilliant red eyes.  A heavy weight that surrounded him.  The name Juliet.  He rubbed his forehead, trembling again.  "It wasn't human, was it?"

Agent Winchester's humor faded.  He shook his head.  "Maybe at one point?"  He winced.  "Like I said, Dean knows more.  Bal and I do what we can on this end but, he’s not always up front on what these things are.  The most I get is some odd message now and again so that I know he's still kicking."

"Is your brother human?"

Agent Winchester's open countenance immediately closed.  "I think that's enough for today.  I'll check in with you again tomorrow, Mr. Novak."  The man stood and waved a hand.  "We'll have a guard stationed until you're released.  In the meantime, rest."

Castiel watched him go, all the more unsettled.

​

[aliypop]

Brave Heart

Wordcount: 2,094

Warning: Language  angst. 

A/N: So this is apart of my Series The Element of Fate, I decided to make the shorts into a series, with that being said I hope you like this one! Also I hope I’m on the right track to writing Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir!

"What's this between you two.." Tithuba asked. The sun was rising, and Geralt was outside tending to the bushes of herbs for their breakfast. "What's what.." Adina laughed, a stein cup full of herbal tea pressed to her lips, "This tastes like shit.." she mumbled under her breath. 

"It'll help with your strength, now answer my question.." plucking a white strand off her daughter's shoulder. The question Tithuba asked was a question she asked herself every time he'd hold her or even opened up to her little by little. 

"I.. love him but.." 

"But what.." Tithuba's green eyes peered over her cup. The fireplace crackled behind, them the two tucked in warm wool blankets. The cottage was known to be colder during the early mornings.

 "He's not mine.." she laughed, "He's a witcher they're.. they're cold and cruel.." she sighed, remembering his warm touch that she woke up to; his rough finger pads tracing over her warm but ragged scars. "What makes you say that.." placing her stein down, Tithuba could see the fear in her eyes that Clarion replaced where she had once put dreams in. 

"Not the ones I know... Well, I knew.." Tithuba laughed, 

"You've encountered Witchers before..." Adina asked, leaning in closer towards her mother, like a child hearing a hero's tale.

 "What was he like.. did he have sharp teeth.." She joked, "What his name." her round brown eyes now focused on the witch in front of her. Tithuba only laughed at how naive she still was. 

"He did have sharp canine teeth and Black hair that was turning white." Tithuba smiled, "He went by Vesemir.." she shrugged her shoulder, "He was a monster with a sword. " she laughed, "Meaning great swordsmanship." she corrected herself. 

To say that Tithuba had admired Vesemir was an understatement. Her cheeks would burn red when she talked about him, and her eyes would have a sparkle in them. 

"However, back to you." 

When Adina heard the subject brought back around again, her heart nearly fell back in her chest. 

 "Why do you question your emotions .." And within one thought, Adina had said something that she knew she could never take back. 

"Because if knights and Witchers rarely mix, then why should a Princess and a dumb mutant ex-" 

"Gods.. you couldn't be fucking worse than anyone else.." Geralt said, standing against the door frame, holding the chopped wood in his arms. Geralt would never admit it, but he had felt more pain in that entire sentence than any monster he had faced.

 "Geralt, I didn't-" Adina's voice became hush.

"Get out of my life!" 

"You don't mean that!" Adina interjected, running towards him, "You can't possibl-"

"You're a burden, and I don't want you around fucking my life over!" at the moment, he had meant every word that came out of his mouth. 

"What's going .." 

SLAM!

The door behind The Witcher nearly sounded as if it would break off. "Adina, you're crying.." Flora said, rushing to her side. Flora knew of broken hearts when she saw one, and this was it. "What have I done..." she balled her fist up.  

The sweet smell of Summer had left, and the crips snow had fallen. "Are you sure you have to go.." Tithuba asked, watching Adina climb upon the back of Buttercup in her winter cape, the fur from a fallen white wolf on the hood. "I promised Florian I would be there at the ceremony .." her smile still a bit dim. "This isn't because Geralt might be there, is it.." a silence fell upon the pair. Watching as her daughter galloped away into the winter sunrise, Tithuba knew that she still had a soft spot for Geralt. Besides, why on earth would she wear the fur of a white wolf if not to catch him. Adina, who had found herself in a pub, heard the ever-familiar tune,

Toss a coin to your Witcher

"Jaskier.." her head shot up: she hadn't seen the bard since the day Geralt had left out of her life. Within those times, Adina had not only taken care of her mothers' establishment but had been apart of a few hellish crusades. With a healing scar going through her eyebrow, she still managed to look so regal but with a bit of an edge. Her tired eyes, much like Geralt's, were only now focused on one thing. "Ale... that was Geralt's favorite.." she laughed to herself, looking back at the snow; she hadn't noticed the same plunky bard in front of her grinning like a foolish idiot.  

"Geral-" Jaskier almost said, watching as the wolf hood cape came down: he was in complete shock. " Adina.. " he gasped, a bit surprised but also aroused by her new look. Her hair was shorter, but her curls were still as beautiful as ever. " A Greva got your tongue Jas.." she asked, fingers in her hair. As she turned her back towards him, the bard had noticed a mark that resembled a dragon rising from flames.

  "You're.." 

"Aye! It's the knight of the Flame!" a few villagers said. Jaskier had never seen Adina so vibrant as she was now. Jaskier had only heard songs about her, but he never connected the two. Watching as she waved, Jaskier just knew that he had to get back with Geralt.  

"So what happened to you and Flora.." 

"We had a very bloody falling out.. after you helped her find her family.. they refused to let her see me again.. and well.." he sighed, " I haven't written a love song since.. " listening to him talk, she realized just how much your fate depends on the person willing to chase it. "Well, accompany me to Anore for the union of Florian.." leaving a few coins on the table, the two were later on their adventure through the cold, rough winds, and soon the beautiful kingdom where the flowers still sprouted in the death of winter cold. 

"And then I said..." seeing a few leaves rustle, Jaskier began to quiet down. Unsheathing her sword was the knight ready for any monster or witcher she came across. "Do you hear that.. suppose it was a Djinn.. or.. or those hasty Hagons.. or worse.." the brightly colored man said, hiding behind Buttercup.  

"If you want me come and get... FUCK!" almost snow blonde hair toppled out from the tree and onto Jaskier, dressed in her traditional winter apparel, was,

  "Flora.."

"Jaskier.." her cheeks red from the winter bite, Flora couldn't believe it. Right under her was Jaskier, who had seemed to grow a bit more chest hair since she last saw him. "Why are you in my forest.." getting off of him as she pressed an arrow to his throat, "Did someone send you to kill m-" Adina only smirked, her neck-length hair getting covered in snow. "Drop the arrow.. " her sword drawn to the new warrior's neck.

 "You wouldn't. " 

"Try me.." 

Watching the elf drop her weapon, she later put her sword down. Embracing her in a hug made her remember the simple times when there wasn't a war. Or her attending to the needs of the people of Vizima. 

 "Being a knight has not been kind to you, has it," Flora asked, looking up at the taller woman who shook her head, "No, but it's been rewarding." She climbed back on Buttercup, "

Are you headed to Anore by any chance?" 

"Get your arse on the horse we'll, pick up clothes on the way there. " as the trotting of Buttercup continued, she realized how much she had missed having friends. Hearing both Jaskier and Flora pick up right where they had left off brought joy to her slowly welting heart.

 When they arrived in the kingdom, Adina could feel the love that Florian had for his bride surrounding it. It almost made her hopeful. Looking in the mirror, she had made an illusion of Geralt, knowing that if he were there right now, he would have been rendered speechless. "

"Adina, you're going to be late for the ceremon.." Flora gasped, seeing the added tone to her build in her dress. She looked like what people imagined the goddesses to look like, "You look beautiful .." she whispered, lost for words at what she had just witnessed. "You think so.." she gave the gown a twirl. 

"I know so... If you leave now, you can get to Kaer Morhen in two weeks.." 

"What.." 

"Go to him.."

The heavy snowfall in Kaedwen was almost unbearable. Leaving her horse in the pastures, she found herself lost, not being able to find the witchers trail. Feeling as though she would now die alone in an unknown, land Adina felt as though this would be her fate, or so she thought. Hearing soft footsteps, she knew that something and or someone was behind her. Taking out her sword, she flipped it in her right hand, turning to the left and almost stabbing what seemed to be another witcher but older. As he blocked her attack, he grew impressed with her footwork as well as her stance. If only his students moved the way she did, he'd had been proud of them. Taking her blade to the throat of the man, she had only one thing to say. 

"Any last words.." her Abbinshire accent now replaced with the Lryia one her mother had.  

"I've been expecting you, Tithuba's daughter.." he smirked,  

"You're Vesemir.." she gasped, looking up at him, removing her blade from his neck. 

"Perhaps we should find you some other clothes.." he shook his head, guiding her to the path of the castle: Adina was in awe of everything that she had seen. From the snowy mountains to even a few Witchers training. "So this is where he's from.." she mumbled, under her breath, looking around, changing into a linen shirt, pants made of leather, and a doublet or deep blue: She realized just how much warmer she felt,

"He should be here soon.." Vesemir sighed from behind the door. 

"I didn't come to find G-" she then nodded, noticing that he had already walked away with a possible shit-eating grin on his face. Vesemir had already known what happened besides: it wasn't as if Geralt was roaming around the halls brooding a bit more than he usually did. Finding her way towards the keep, she had noticed two other Witchers, one with red spikes and the other mostly in black. 

"Curly hair.." the one in red mumbled,

"Check."

"Brown eyes to get lost in."

"Check" 

"Looks like a Knight.."

"Check.." 

"You must be the one wolf's been brooding on about.." Adina looked up in confusion, "I'm Eskel.. The idiot over there is Lambert." he introduced himself, looking at the woman that Geralt had seemed to never shut up about,

"Don't listen to the loving bastard," Lambert smirked, kissing her hand. "Wolf picked good.." he then mumbled, watching as the knight blushed. 

"I see where Geralt gets his charm from.." she laughed. The two witchers waited for the return of Geralt. The pair both had begun teaching Adina how to play Gwent, in which she was losing even though Eskel took it easy on her. 

" That's bullshit, Lambert, you cheated!" Adina's laughter filled the keep 

"Kiss my arse princess!" he growled. 

"Mayhaps I will!" She smirked, putting her best card forward. As time passed, Adina kept bonding with the witchers, who seemed to have taken her in their wolf pack. From playing Gwent to a bit of sword fighting, she felt that she found a family. 

"And then the Striga was behind us, and it nearly ate Geralt.." she looked behind her. The so-called white wolf, who she had now heard every embarrassing story about, was standing there,

 A feeling of shock at her new look washed over him, trying to keep a stoic appearance. "It's been a while.." Geralt said, shifting his weight around, trying to seem more intimidating. "Seems it has .." she looked into his weary eyes: 

"I see you became a Knight.." he looked at her now rough hands. She looked beautiful, but the words that she said still rang in his head. 

"I did... it's been tiring, bloody and lonely.." her hand on his face. Both Lambert and Eskel watched in the background, their heads in the palm of their hands. The pair only gasped at how whipped he was for her.  

"You should take him to bed!" Lambert shouted.

"You dick.." Geralt grumbled under his breath.

[lightshadowverisimilitude]

Songbird 1/?

I’m just going to start posting all the 645664064724 bunnies I have laying around, okay? 

This one is called “Captive Bride” on the bunny mountain. Nielan, Wangxian. I didn’t set OUT to make it a Beauty and the Beast AU... but it’s basically a Beauty and the Beast AU.

-

Lan Wangji held up a single hand. In the darkness, Wei Wuxian was nearly invisible. If he closed his eyes and his lips both, he might have faded into the surrounding shadows altogether, while the juniors stood out like clouds backlit by sunbeams where they knelt in the brush.

They had received the urgent request for aid from Lotus Pier just as the sun was passing its zenith, and it had been all Lan Wangji could do to hold Wei Wuxian back long enough to gather a party. The Jiang messenger had collapsed on the steps outside the gates immediately after gasping, “The Nie have descended on Yunmeng.” He had still been unconscious when Lan Wangji had assembled all available cultivators - most juniors - to make a run for their close ally. Taking so many juniors into battle made his skin prickle with unease, but they would need to be blooded eventually, and a skirmish in friendly territory while the Jiang clan was still strong was as gentle an introduction as they were likely to get. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said after a pair of long minutes had passed, slipping up beside him. “What is it?” 

Lan Wangji frowned into the darkness. They had all descended to the ground once the sun had set to be less conspicuous targets, but Lan Wangji gripped Bichen tightly and wished they had stayed aloft. He slid his eyes sideways to eye Wei Wuxian’s black-on-gray robes once more and considered the merits of suggesting darker battle gear for such situations as this. 

“Not sure,” Lan Wangji admitted. With seventeen juniors all under the age of eighteen to mind and only three adults including himself and his husband, he might have been imagining the shadows leering at them. 

“Seems quiet,” Wei Wuxian said, but in agreement rather than protest. 

Lan Wangji nodded. The creatures around them were too still. It could have been a response to their own presence, but he had called a halt several minutes ago, and the normal night sounds had not yet resumed. 

Holding a hand out, Wei Wuxian traced a seal on his palm, and then blew across it. A faint flicker of red limned the wings of a shadowy butterfly. He leaned close to whisper instructions, and then released the talisman. It drifted away from his fingers like smoke, disappearing into the shadows immediately. 

Wei Wuxian twisted to look behind him and then turned back with a sigh. He tutted under his breath. “They practically glow.” 

“Mmn,” Lan Wangji agreed. 

“I think you should let me have some disciples of my own,” Wei Wuxian said, and then pivoted slowly on his toes so that he faced the opposite direction and could keep an eye on their charges. Lan Xiu was at the rear of their party, his guqin already across his lap. 

“Mmn,” Lan Wangji said again. The recent aggression of the Nie clan and the resulting plunge into a war that no one had been prepared to fight had highlighted to Lan Wangji the particular weaknesses of his clan. No other clan fought like the Nie, and it had taken them all by surprise, but Lan Wangji privately admitted that they had been perhaps the least well-equipped to handle the brutal attacks. 

Wei Wuxian looked at him sharply, but Lan Wangji said nothing more, and Wei Wuxian released his curiosity for the moment. 

The juniors at least seemed aware that they were brilliant targets in the darkness, and they had hunkered down in the underbrush back-to-back. They were utterly silent, and even Wei Wuxian was uncharacteristically still. 

A flicker of movement. Lan Wangji thumbed Bichen from her sheath and scanned his eyes slowly over the trees, letting his gaze wander to better capture any movement at the periphery of his vision. At a whisper of cool air, Lan Wangji glanced to Wei Wuxian. The shadow butterfly perched on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, only visible because of the slow fluttering of its wings. It walked on smoke-light feet up the side of Wei Wuxian’s neck and clung to his cheek, whispering its report in his ear. 

Without speaking, Wei Wuxian turned again and gestured out in front of Lan Wangji, finger angling upward. Lan Wangji followed the line of his arm and finally saw it. A slightly darker clump of shadows crouched in a tree thirty yards ahead of them. It might have been only a denser bundle of limbs, but as Lan Wangji watched, the shadow lifted its head and the whites of its eyes caught the moonlight and reflected it back. 

Realizing immediately that he had been spotted, the man leapt out of the trees. A pair of short, dark blades came unsheathed as he descended, flashing in the weak light. Lan Wangji leapt to meet him while the shadows around them exploded. Behind him, he heard the twang of a guqin, and then a startled rush of noise from the juniors. 

Lan Wangji met one blade with Bichen and repelled the other with a fast hand seal. The force sent him spinning away, and he had the barest window to reach out and touch his fingertips to his opponent’s side. He sent a short burst of pure spiritual energy out of his hand and was rewarded with a pained cry. The black-clad cultivator tumbled out of the sky and crashed hard into the underbrush. Lan Wangji maintained the pressure of his spiritual energy against the ground to keep himself aloft and turned briefly to check on the rest of his team. 

The juniors had drawn together. One had her flute out, but the notes trembled as they tripped through the trees, and the song was doing more to raise the anxiety of her fellows than give them strength. 

“Stop that and draw your sword,” Wei Wuxian ordered calmly before Lan Wangji could say anything. He clapped his hands sharply together and thrust one hand out. A flutter of pale yellow paper, and then a shadowy form was flying through the trees with one of Wei Wuxian’s clever paperman talismans attached to his chest. 

Leaving the care of the juniors to his husband, Lan Wangji pulled his spiritual energy back in and lowered to the ground. His earlier opponent staggered upright with one hand pressed to his side. Likely, he had broken several ribs, either from the initial strike, or the resulting fall. With obvious effort, he pulled himself upright, took in a breath, and went back on the offensive. Lan Wangji parried, frowning. The more effective strike would have aimed for his throat, but the man had come in low, aiming for his left leg instead. 

A wide sweep of Bichen’s blade sent his opponent stumbling backwards. The man came in with another strike meant to disable. Lan Wangji reversed his grip and slammed Bichen’s pommel hard into the other man’s forehead. The attacker choked, dropping one short sword to clutch at his head, and then doubled over and vomited into a bush. 

Lan Wangji delivered a sharp blow to the back of his neck. He slumped forward, but Lan Wangji watched him for a moment longer to ensure he was not going to climb back to his feet. Seeing no movement, Lan Wangji turned. Lan Xiu had abandoned his guqin and fought with three opponents at once, Wei Wuxian flung talismans out as fast as his hands could move, and the juniors had broken into small groups to face any of at least two dozen of the shadowy attackers. 

Sheathing Bichen, Lan Wangji summoned his guqin from his qiankun sleeve and danced his fingers down the strings. The greatest concentration of fighting was around Wei Wuxian, and Lan Wangji aimed his strike there, driving half a dozen of the attacking cultivators off their feet and back into the trees. 

Wei Wuxian flicked a glance at him, nodding, and then drew Suibian and slashed it across one man’s throat in the same smooth movement. Lan Wangji turned his attention back to the juniors, striding forward as he picked out another series of notes to calm their minds and strengthen their resolve. His students were good in a fight, if untested, and their training had taken hold where their experience had failed. Their sword forms were neat and perfect, but the confines of the young forest, still choked with undergrowth, and the unusual fighting style of their opponents was wholly unlike the practice field. 

Lan Wangji ran both hands over the strings, sending a wave of visible spiritual energy through the trees that scattered a group of their attackers and had still more tumbling from the trees. He released Bichen from her sheath and sent her flying, tracking the flickering sword glares and quickly separating friend from foe. 

Behind him, Wei Wuxian grunted, and then hissed. Lan Wangji sent a ripple of energy in front of him, giving himself just enough breathing room to turn. Wei Wuxian had one hand clenched hard to his side, but Suibian still flashed, wicked and almost playful in the shifting light. Lan Wangji clenched his jaw and turned back, trusting Wei Wuxian to take care of himself in a fight where their juniors were more in need of his attention. 

A moment later, he heard a short, gurgling cry, and looked sharply to his left to see Lan Xiu double over and disappear into the bushes. Three juniors rushed to his side, two fending off his opponents while the third knelt to check his injuries. Lan Wangji pressed his spiritual energy downward to propel himself over the heads of his juniors and down in Lan Xiu’s abandoned place, Bichen curving through the trees to a staccato rhythm of clarion clangs and started gasps.

“To me!” Wei Wuxian called suddenly. 

Lan Wangji did not turn, but drew his fingers over a quick run of notes to build pressure, and then released it with a single sharp strike. A pulse of blue light lit up another dozen figures as Lan Wangji leapt backwards. 

The juniors had retreated as well, three of them carrying Lan Xiu’s limp form between them while their fellows surrounded them with drawn swords. Wei Wuxian led them unerringly through the trees, quick flickers of red butterflies lighting the path. Lan Wangji followed in short hops, turning every second stride to force their pursuers back. 

Behind him, sharp cracks of fire dragged cultivators out of the trees and sent them screaming to earth. Seeing Wei Wuxian’s delicate butterflies set to such a purpose both made Lan Wangji’s chest swell with pride and sink in sadness. Bichen came flying back to him. He lifted the guqin out of the way to catch her in her sheath as Wei Wuxian’s butterflies bought them enough breathing room to open their strides to a full run. 

A short time later, they came to a sheltered clump of boulders, and Wei Wuxian led them directly inside. One giant stone had toppled over at some point in the distant past to form an imperfect roof and create a defensible space that gave them enough room to spread out some distance. There were only three spaces in the rocks large enough to admit a person, and the juniors moved immediately to cover two while Lan Wangji put himself in front of the last. 

“These Nie,” Wei Wuxian complained, but his voice was hoarse and he looked ghostly pale in the flickering light of his cloud of butterflies. 

“How bad?” Lan Wangji asked, eyes drawn down to Wei Wuxian’s side. He could not see how much blood had soaked into Wei Wuxian’s dark robes, but he could smell the metallic tang of it and noticed how shallow his husband’s breaths were as he hunched subtly to the left. 

“Barely a scratch,” Wei Wuxian said brightly, which only alarmed Lan Wangji all the more. “I’ve gotten worse from girls’ fingernails,” he added. The statement had been calculated to distract Lan Wangji with jealousy. 

Glaring, Lan Wangji called two of the junior’s over to take his place. Ignoring Wei Wuxian’s muttered protests, he pressed his hand to Wei Wuxian’s side. His eyes widened at the feel of the sodden fabric. 

“It’s fine,” Wei Wuxian told him softly. “Really. I’ve caught most of the bleeding already. Some of it isn’t mine.” 

Lan Wangji probed at his qi and found that Wei Wuxian was being uncommonly honest. He had a tendency to understate his most critical injuries while whining loudly about the most minor so that Lan Wangji always assumed he was on the verge of death whenever Wei Wuxian dismissed an injury or said, “It’s fine.” 

Wei Wuxian had refocused enough spiritual energy to create a temporary bandage over the wound, stopping the bleeding. However, Lan Wangji had no doubt that Wei Wuxian would recall that energy as soon as he felt that it was needed, so he quickly pulled a roll of bandages from his sleeve and fitted it over the wound. On the ground, the three who had pulled Lan Xiu to safety were doing the same, working swiftly but calmly on a wound to his abdomen. He moaned softly, still unconscious. 

“Did you notice?” Wei Wuxian asked quietly, lifting his arm out of the way without complaint so Lan Wangji could wind the bandage around his torso. 

Glancing quickly over the tense juniors, Lan Wangji nodded. “They're after you?” 

Wei Wuxian approximately a shrug. “Why?” 

Lan Wangji’s eyes flitted to the butterflies still dancing around them. Wei Wuxian was a highly unconventional cultivator, and his inventions had already sent ripples through the cultivation world. The Jin sect had tried to recruit him right under Lan Wangji’s nose, and he received requests almost weekly to be a guest instructor for any number of sects, both large and small.

Lowering his voice so even Lan Wangji could barely hear it, Wei Wuxian said, “I’m sure one of them tried to grab Lan Xiu. He struggled away, and I think the sword thrust was a mistake.” 

Lan Wangji frowned. “You're sure?” 

Borrowing from Lan Wangji’s vocabulary, Wei Wuxian said, “Mmn.” 

“You, they’re trying to kill.” 

Wei Wuxian nodded again. “How many Lan cultivators have gone missing?” he asked. 

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. They both knew the number, and Wei Wuxian wouldn’t have forgotten. Eighteen had disappeared off various battlefields in the months of fighting, and none had returned. No bodies left behind, simple gone. It was why Cloud Recesses could spare no one but the oldest class of junior disciples for Yunmeng’s aid. 

“We’re closer to Lotus Pier,” Lan Wangji said. 

Wei Wuxian narrowed his eyes. Despite Lan Wangji having given no other indication to his thoughts, Wei Wuxian said, “I’m not running and leaving you here.” 

“I am worth a ransom.” 

Snorting incredulously, Wei Wuxian said, “And I’m not?” 

“Injured,” Lan Wangji pointed out. He tied the bandage off and started to hum, pouring energy into it. 

Wei Wuxian slapped at his hands, leaving sticky prints behind. “Don’t waste your energy if you’re going to be this stupid. Because I’m injured, it makes more sense for you to go. They’ll need you to protect them.” 

Lan Wangji glanced around. Though no one was looking at them, he knew they had the juniors’ attention. He also knew that they would not be given much longer in reprieve. The explosions of the butterflies had caught their attackers off guard and killed or severely injured perhaps five or six of them, but even so, there had to be at least thirty still out in the trees. 

“They’re trying to kill you,” Lan Wangji said. “They’ll take me alive.”

“If you let them,” Wei Wuxian said with his eyes narrowed. 

Lan Wangji hesitated. It was against his nature to consider surrender, as Wei Wuxian well knew, but Wei Wuxian would not leave if he believed that Lan Wangji would fight to his death, and Lan Wangji would not leave Wei Wuxian to fight an army that meant to kill him. He thought of A-Yuan, and how he had clutched at Lan Xichen’s robes and sobbed that afternoon as they’d left.

“I will allow it,” Lan Wangji said. 

Wei Wuxian made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. Uncaring of witnesses, he took Lan Wangji’s face between his blood-sticky hands and kissed him. The touch of his lips was sweet and familiar, and Lan Wangji leaned into him, hands gentle on Wei Wuxian’s hips. He used the moments while Wei Wuxian was distracted to funnel spiritual energy into him. 

Pulling back, Wei Wuxian glared at him. 

“You’ll need it,” Lan Wangji said. 

Sighing, Wei Wuxian used his grip on Lan Wangji’s face to tilt his head down. He kissed the emblem of Lan Wangji’s ribbon, and then bowed his head so Lan Wangji could do the same for the black ribbon sitting at its usual slightly crooked angle on Wei Wuxian’s forehead. Lan Wangji reached up automatically to straighten it, a familiar action that made Wei Wuxian smile. 

“I’ll find you,” Wei Wuxian said, and then thumped their foreheads together again. “You know I’ll teach A-Yuan all the worst habits if you make me raise him alone. I’ll be a terrible single parent. I’ll let him stay up until midnight every night, and feed him candy every day, I swear I will.” 

Wei Wuxian waited for Lan Wangji to nod, and then took out a blank sheet of talisman paper and dug a finger under the bandage Lan Wangji had wound around his torso, skewing the wraps as he did so. With a fresh coating of blood, he drew out a seal, and then whispered across it, “The birds are perching somewhere in the mist.”

The seal lit up in a burst of ember light, and then faded. Lan Wangji frowned at the bandage, now somewhat loose, but pulled the collars of his robes aside. They both ignored the scandalized gasps of the juniors, and Wei Wuxian pressed the talisman to Lan Wangji’s chest. He leaned forward to place a kiss on the back of the paper, and then shifted over to set another on Lan Wangji’s collarbone. Lan Wangji shivered, as much for the gentle press of lips as at the smoke-cool sensation of the talisman binding to his skin. He pulled his robes back together over it. 

“Set the butterflies out to cover your flight,” Lan Wangji said. 

Wei Wuxian nodded. Lan Wangji unsheathed Bichen and held her point-down as he passed between the two juniors studiously not paying attention to Lan Wangji and his husband as they said their farewells. 

Lan Wangji had barely stepped through the opening in the rocks when a gust of warm air rushed past him fast enough to stir his hair and pull the back of his robes tight against his body. Lan Wangji closed his eyes. Even through his eyelids, the burst of light was stunning. Thousands of campfire sparks exploded in the air, and there was a great cry of surprise and curses of pain. 

Lan Wangji released Bichen, tracing the loudest of the complaints and summoning his guqin in the same breath. If he hadn’t been listening for it, he wouldn’t have heard the whispering rush of the juniors taking to their swords and rising quickly into the air. They would be shielded for a few moments by both the blinding dazzle of the exploding butterflies and the resulting burst of smoke. If they were lucky and no other cultivators had waited further back, the cover would be enough to see them safely out of sight by the time the afterglow faded. 

He heard no renewed exclamations of shock. A positive sign. Unfortunately, the rest of his opponents had fallen silent, and he was forced to call Bichen back as he sent a wave of spiritual energy blindly into the trees. Several meaty thumps resulted, but Lan Wangji had no opportunity to press the advantage as a sword sailed out of the trees to his left, and he was immediately forced on the defensive.

[nenestansunsthings]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

it's the 50th flash fiction friday! i haven't written for these in a while, but we had four whole prompts this week and i really liked one of them. and i had a story i wanted to rewrite, if i can find the notebook it was in. so...

anyway, let's start! the prompt i'm using for now is-

[[MORE]]

.

There is light, a blinding, burning light, through every shard and fractal of his inhuman body. There is a scream sharp in his ears, in the bone-dry hollow of his throat where he can't reach. There's nothing, nothing past that.

It's only faintly that William realizes he's fallen to the ground.

A boot crunches down on his hands, where he was still scrabbling desperately against the sand, and the scream cracks along with the glass of his fingers. He doesn't think he'll ever be used to that sound, even after his body has lost all humanity. The god that made him this way growls, digging in their heel harder. He can't see past the blinding light.

"Did you think you could get away with this?!" Emil demands, their clarion voice ringing out like a trumpet. It's not the same soft, human one they'd used talking to their family, and talking to him in the quiet of night. "Did you think you could get ả̵̟͙͂̔̒̌̈̄͝ẅ̵̬̱̫̂a̴̭͇͔̹͉͔̋̆͑͊͛̾͘ÿ̷̨̢͍̦͎̫̳͙̘̙?! I've given you everything! I've given you more than you ever dared to hope for! And yet you still try to ḷ̴̨̼̙̖͎͔̮͗̎̇͐̕ë̸̳̭̫͓͇́̾̀͠a̸̛̪͎͎̔͗̍̀̃̇́͝v̴̼̪̈́͌̈́̉́̇͗̚͠ͅe̸̛̖̦̠̒̔̉!"

William forces himself to breathe. It comes in shaky, unstable in the sandstorm swirling around them. He can still feel the pain of it whipping into him. He doubts Emil's ever been able. "Please-" he chokes out, "please, no, stop-"

"You b̵̧̢̲̱̞̓͋̍̈̑̊͐̒͘é̴̬̘̻̲̘̗̣́̋̓̕͠t̶̨̟͔͍́̂̀r̵̢̳͚̹͔̰̽͂̐a̴̧̤̗͎̞̳̹͍͓̓̈́ỳ̵̧̱̳̣͖̰͍̼̞e̸̡̧̱͓̝̥͆͐̇̂̿̓́͝͝d̷̲̗̬̻͚̥̆ ̶̢̝̻͇̦̜̄̊̃̐̽́͋̚ͅm̴̧̺̼̓̀̅e̶̬͎̼͂̒͜!" Emil screams, all the fury of the sun being born bright in their whole being, "a̶̧͗ṅ̷̯d̴̥̐ ̵̛̖ȳ̷̭ö̸̯́ṷ̴̍ ̵͓̑t̷̙́h̴̜͑ì̵͍n̸̰͛k̶̺̅ ̶̜̓I̵̟̚'̸̠́m̴̼̏ ̶̜͊j̴̖̅ṳ̴̔s̴̩̈́t̵̰̐-̵̹͠ ̷͚́j̷̟͐u̷̦͘s̷̲̃t̷̛̺ ̴͚͊g̴̻̽ò̶̹i̷͛͜n̴̞̎g̷̤̑ ̷̰̒t̴͙͌o̵̞͋ ̴̧̈́s̷̢͋ț̸͛ö̸̗́p̵̹̐?̵̖̑ ̵̙̒Ṉ̴̔ò̵̼!̶̪̀ ̸̲̀Ẏ̵͈o̴̫͘û̴̧ ̶͍̃t̶̙͒ŗ̸̛ị̸̛ê̸̝d̶͇͒ ̶̡̛t̷͎̀o̸̙͒ ̷̼̈́l̶̦͐é̶͔a̵͖͝v̶̟̉e̴͓͝-̷̪͊!̶̬̈"

"Please, you're hurting me-!"

"- and you- you helped Adam ̵̠͝ĺ̷̥e̶̠͝a̸͔̒v̷̳̒e̵̻͑-̵̞̓!̷̝̕"

"Emil, you're breaking me!"

"G̴̛̣̠̯͈̲̟̖͖̟͉͚̏̾ͅö̵̻̬̩̗̳̙͍̫̞̩̳̀̈́̒͗̆͒̎͋ǫ̴̜̖͖͙͈̳͙̟͍̟͓̀̊͋̂̈́́̋̍̽̍͝ͅd̵͕̬̹̻̖̋̀̓̀̍͑͗͜!̶̧̢̡̱̼͎͍̥̳͉̗̱̺̰͈̜̼͆͒͗̇̔̄̃̍̋͋̓͋̌͆̓͘" The aridisol making up their body explodes outwards, enough that their form is barely humanoid anymore. Faintly, William can hear the terrified voices of the other townspeople, trying to take shelter from the dust storm. He tries to speak again and Emil shatters the glass of his legs.

"Emil!" Another voice cuts in through the storm, familiar and almost safe. Samuel Deke grabs Emil by the wrist, all the dust of him quickly absorbing the unbearable heat rising from his sibling. He doesn't seem to care. "Emil, leave him alone! He didn't do anything wrong-"

"H̶̛̜̑e̶̮͌̆ ̷̳͔̈́́ȉ̵̳̐s̴̬̾ ̷̭̤̈́̉ṭ̸̭͝͝r̷̙̟̅ẙ̵̘̀i̴͇̟̽͛n̴̛͚͒ĝ̸͚ ̸̢́t̵̤̦͊͘o̶̖̝̍ ̷͓̏ͅl̸̘̼͂e̷͍̋ǎ̸͍̽v̸̧̔ẻ̸̠ ̷̫̔̆m̴͉͕̀̚ẹ̵͖͑͗!̴̮͒" More shattering, this time in his shoulders. "I̸̼̍ ̴͓̆ď̸̦í̷̲d̸̙́ǹ̵̰'̴̭́t̴̡̆ ̶̘̑d̴̝̓o̵͖͛ ̶̧͠a̸̤͘n̴̘͐y̷̤̌t̵̯̂h̶̠̾ī̷̫n̸̼͒g̸͙͝ ̸̤̾w̴̿ͅȑ̶̯o̸̝͘n̵̻̓g̸̹̚ ̴̯̅Í̴͖ ̴̤̇d̶̺̕i̵͔̋d̵͙̃ ̴̟͠e̶͎̅v̶͎̀e̶̤͝r̶͙̒y̷̧͠t̷̺̋h̷͙̎i̴̫̒n̷͚̄g̴̢͐ ̶̪͂r̴̦͘ì̴̥g̶͈̿h̶͉́t̸̝̕ w̸͈̜̝͛h̴̨̡̰̊͌̈͆͆͝y̷̧̼͙͓̘̝̒ ̶̲͕̗̭͍̓̄̽i̷̧͉͎̫̾̀̾s̷̛̙ ̴̧̠͎̰͐͐͛͘ḩ̸̢̻̘̒̊̀̑̿̉͜ͅe̵̱̰̣̰͓͉̓ ̷̥̞̺̟̼̉͜t̴̡̻̰̘͓̪̀r̶̝͌y̷̛̽̊̚̚ͅi̸̭̤̦̮̬̟͌̔͂̑͗͝n̵̝̩͊g̵͖̹̪̈́̈́̈́ ̴̢̧̦͔̗̤͌̓͌t̶̗͈͓̏̀͒̇͛̔o̵̰̖̺͑͠ ̷͉̣̟̾̄̈͗͒̍l̶̨̦̫͇̜̓͝e̵̠̘̟̼̐̅̋ḁ̷̥͖̱͖͆͠v̶̘̥̂̄̎̓͘é̸̺͍̞̍̽̈͘ͅ ̴̧̮̮̣̋͂̂̏͋̌ḿ̴̺͎̘͕̺̄͗è̷̪͔?̸!"

"Emil, let him go!" There's a heavy crack, this one not in glass. The god of the town, the eye of the storm, the ever-burning sun- they freeze for a moment, the storm still as they register the crumbling soil of their cheek. The soil their brother hit.

"... S̶̘̋ǎ̶͚͛m̴̱̰̎u̴̞͔͐̀ȩ̷̢͂͝l̴̝̃͗."

"No! No, he- You can hit me, please, don't hurt him-"

"Who the hell do you think you are," Samuel snarls, their sand burning in the heat. "What right do you have to stop him? What right do you have to hurt him?"

"He's m̶͕͋į̸̺̽̊n̷̻͎̕é̴͓̙̇." Emil responds sharply. "As y̶̭̞͌̒ỏ̴̠̈́u̷͇̓ are. As t̵̪̭̑h̸̨̺̚ĭ̷̹s̵̜͐̈́ ̵̖̱̏͊t̶͎̄́ͅo̷̟̦̾w̴̰͓͛͆n̴̯͝͝ is. He's m̴̲̓̎ĭ̶̤͝ṋ̶̿͝ẽ̴̙̭̃, he's m̴̦͚͝ẻ̸̗͚, I've given him s̶͍̣̓ỏ̸̯͕̄ ̷̱̠̈m̴̭̌ủ̴͓c̸̟̤̈́͐h̴̖͌̋ ̵̬̈́̅o̸̢̮̓͘f̸͔̰̀̈́ ̸͍͕̆͛m̵̠̕ĕ̸̩̱- does he think he can j̷̐ͅú̵̋͜s̵͔̳̕t̵͕́ ̸̭͕̽t̴͕̊̑ḥ̸̩̂ȑ̶̠o̵̫̚w̴͈̋̕ ̴̹̚i̵̞̯̊t̷̰̑͘ ̷̞͉̆a̶̦̓l̸̙̬͒l̷̥̪̊ ̷͎͂ḁ̴̃͂ẃ̵͓̬͗â̸͎͇͌y̸̤͈̆̀?̶̤́!̴͎͛"

"He doesn't belong to you. None of us do." Samuel glares down at them. "Emil... Don't you love him? Don't you care about him? Why are you putting him through this?"

"Ö̷̟̪́f̸͚͋ ̴̰̯͝c̵̬̯̀̀o̶͇̼͋͝u̸̖̜͋́r̸̲͈̒s̶͖̻̈è̶͎͚ ̸̢̅̇I̷̡̛̓ ̷̭͋l̷̪͂o̷̖̖̊v̵̢̦̊ȇ̵̪ ̷̥͝ḥ̴͂i̶͉͗m̸͕͠!̴̺̕̚ ̷̧͙̊̿Ḯ̸͎̺͝t̸͕͙̃̈'̷̟̯̓͗s̵̆͜ ̶̙͋ẃ̸͎̰h̷͈̖̓͒y̸͚̾̅ ̴̩̒I̷̱͂ ̷̡̛̈́c̷͇͌́a̶̳̥͌̊ň̸̲'̷̧́t̶͉̆ ̶̯̳̾l̵̹̩̈e̸̘̾t̸̥͈͒̆ ̸͖̎̂h̵̢̯͒̈́i̶̙̲̔̅m̷̩͙͊̍ ̶̹̅̈́l̴̰͔̐͌ę̷̠̄̄ă̷̢v̵̟̦́ẽ̵͖͓!̵̮̦̀͌"

"Bullshit." Samuel doesn't react even as the flickering light of Emil returns to blinding. "You love having him. And if that's the only thing you care about then no fucking wonder William wanted to leave."

It is still night. But no-one would be able to tell with how bright it's become.

"... You're lying." Emil says. "I̵͇͝ ̵̫͕̎̎d̴̟͒̉ö̵̙́̈́n̷͔͈̋'̷̥͐́t̴̊̈́͜ ̵̱̳̉͊b̴͎̯̌̕e̴̜̖͂̋l̷̦̗̽̚i̵̬̐ĕ̸̜̦v̵͍̣̓ë̴̻́́ ̷̜͒̌y̴̛̟̺ö̵͎̗́̄u̴̺̥̐̀.̸͙͖́̚"

And that's the last William hears before the dust storm engulfs him completely, with nothing but burning sunlight to watch him be worn away.

[hopeless-nostalgiac]

Blessing: Tiva Fic

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing. Summary: Tony was under the impression this was a courtesy. More courtesy than Eli deserved, at that. Nothing more. Established Tiva.  A/N: Let me how you liked it, if you’re so inclined. :)  Also, this is a stand alone for now, but maybe not forever. 

Tags? Idk who wants one anymore. @classydepablo @loudlooks @youaresoooloved  @coffeedepablo @mcgeekle

Ff.net

They started up the staircase, in sync as usual, but apart. Then Ziva reached for his hand. That half-second seeking him out, drawing him close, wanting him with her—well, it was everything. Their serendipitous first meeting to the phone call they were about to make, life snapped vividly to alignment with the simple gesture. 

It made Tony feel like a total jerk. 

For the past week, he’d been secretly hoping Gibbs or the director—heck, SecNav—would put the kibosh on the plan. Using government property for personal communications was against some NCIS rule, right?  But Ziva had made the request, Vance had honored the strange position he occupied in the David family mosaic by approving it, and now—

Tony would have her six, his own doubts be damned. They were in this, every step, together.  

Despite their joined hands, he jogged to keep up with her. “You ready?”

“Yes.” Her mouth sealed flat again after the rushed utterance. Open. “Are you?” Shut.

“I was born ready!” 

An arched eyebrow broke rank with her guarded expression, questioning his enthusiasm. 

“White Lightning. 1973. Gator McKlusky. ‘The good, they die young!’ Not Burt Reynolds’s best, but it--” 

“Tony.” 

“Right. Focus. Got it.” 

Was her palm slick with nerves, or his? Probably both. The deserted office at their backs, they stepped onto the platform. Ziva unlocked the door with her eye. A technician dialed the Tel Aviv number. They were doing this. They were commandeering MTAC for a chat with the Director of Mossad.

“Abba?”

Oh, and Ziva’s father. One in the same guy. 

Static hissed and popped on the wall-to-wall screen.

“Abba? Can you hear us—”

“Ziva, there is no need to shout. I am here.” Out of the snow, from across the world, emerged an old man. Older than two years should have aged him. More white than grey around the temples; deeper lines etched into sun-leathered skin. A milder gaze? Maybe it was the spotty satellite connection. A zebra didn’t change his stripes, especially if the zebra was Eli David. 

“Shalom, Abba.” 

“Shalom, my daughter. You look well.”  

No thanks you!

Tony kept the snark to himself, despite the awkward pause—a clarion call to his defensive humor. The silence was punctuated only by beeps and whirs of technology on their side; the director seemed to be in a wood-paneled study, alone.  

The corners of Ziva’s mouth twitched. Reflex, not sentiment. “Thank you.”

Eli nodded and did not force her hesitancy, instead shifted his focus. “I see Agent DiNozzo is joining us.” 

Tony ignored the displeasure in the elder’s tone. “Eli, hi. It’s been awhile. Is that a new tan?”

Her fingers flexed and tightened within in his grip. Behave. “We apologize for the early hour there. I wished to speak to you before Shabbat.”

“How thoughtful of you, but it is no trouble. With age comes a new routine. I am up before the sun most days.”

“So that’s where Ziva gets it.” Tony released a reckless, nervous stream of chuckles. “For running, you know? She gets up early, too, t-to do that.” His eyes darted between the Davids. Neither seemed amused.

Eli coughed, clearing dust and gravel. Years of barking orders had caught up to him, if not the cigars. “Ziva owes her discipline to us. The Mossad’s training.” 

Us?

So sharp was the scoff, it scored Tony’s throat on the way out. He’d tried to be civil, for Ziva. He really had. And it’d lasted a whopping two minutes. Who said miracles didn’t happen?

“Ah, I see how it is. You’re all about taking credit, Eli, but what about the blame? Where should that fall?” 

There was no trick of the connection. Shadows sliced across the older man’s face. His mouth flattened. He leaned in, dominating the frame. “Tread carefully, Agent DiNozzo. You understand little of what you accuse me.”

“I understand plenty. What I don’t get is how you—her father, in case that’s somehow slipped your mind—couldn’t spare a few agents from your stable to rescue your only living child from that God-forsaken—” 

“That does not concern you,” Eli roared. 

“The hell is doesn’t!”

Ziva threw up her arms, as if keeping them from a physical fight. “Enough, both of you. Abba.” She regarded his looming figure with her spine tall, chin high. Ever the soldier. “Tony and I are engaged. That is why we have contacted you. We will be married in October.”

From Eli’s reaction, she might have given him the weather forecast. Mostly overcast, a chance of storms. His features, wrinkles, emotion smoothed banal. Even his words lacked feeling. “I suppose I should not be surprised.”

“Actually, it’s pronounced congratulations,” Tony gritted out, signalling to the technician. “Shalom, Eli.” 

The oversized screen returned to static, and Ziva rounded on him. “Why did you do that?” 

He gaped. “Seriously? You need me to explain?”

“Yes.” 

“Fine. Your dad was being an ass, babe.” 

“You baited him,” she challenged, chin thrusting. 

“And he took it.” Hazel eyes blazed into hers. “He knows what he did to you.” 

Her gaze returned fire. “This was not about getting a confession. I knew he would not... I was only trying to—” 

“What? What do you need?” Tony stepped closer, sliding his hand over the silk of her shirt to her waist. He was under the impression this was a courtesy. More courtesy than Eli deserved, at that. Nothing more. 

Ziva glanced up at him—there and gone. A puff of her coconut and honey shampoo wafted in the draft. “It does not matter now.” Then she was striding, fast, for the door.

But he saw it. Glimpsed in that half-glance, before she tore herself away from him: the spring and run of a single, plump tear across her cheek. 

The pang of guilt struck, silvery and cold like the remnants of adrenaline in his veins, as they left the Navy Yard. It festered in his gut, fed by her silence and straight stare on the drive north through the evening glow. 

A console separated them, mere inches, yet Tony bit his tongue. Literally. Forcing a conversation would stoke the embers of her mood, or be cut off with monosyllabic rebukes. The therapist would approve of them “de-escalating” before talking it out, but all he wanted was to fix this. Peeks at his partner’s reflection in the car window fanned his frustration. The glare of passing streetlamps illuminated not anger in her face, that beautiful face he fell asleep gazing into each night, but a crater of desolate ache. 

Eli, you bastard. 

He fought the urge to swing the car toward Dulles, hop a plane to Israel, and challenge the spy puppeteer to a ‘conference room’ rematch. He had more than enough ammo—nightmares, anxiety, month-long funks—to go round after round with the heavyweight. And he’d win, too. Again.  

“I can hear your teeth grinding, Tony.” Her warm fingers brushed his jaw, bumping along stubble and coiled tension. He unclenched. 

“Your suffering in silence is pretty loud, too, Ziva.” 

Her hand stilled at his neck, dropping away and folding with its pair in her lap. “I am not suffering. I simply do not have anything else to say.” 

Like hell you don’t. 

Tony allowed the thread to dangle. They were speaking to each other, though. Sort of. “Well, do you have an opinion on dinner? I’m starvin’ like Lee Marvin.” His upturned fist hovered above the gear shift. 

They were in the middle of a rock-paper-scissors tournament, the ultimate loser of which would move his or her possessions across the city into one shared apartment prior to the wedding (he was confident it was going to be her doing the packing). 

Smirking, Ziva set. They went three brisk rounds, his rock taking two. She growled; he whooped triumphantly. 

“And that makes it DiNozzo 32, David 26.” 

“You cheated.” 

“I don’t need to cheat,” he countered, keeping an eye on the road. “You’re just a sore loser who’s having Thai tonight.”

A bounce of her shoulders made a noise against the leather seat. “I would have chosen that anyway.” 

“How ‘bout you choose where we sleep?” Tony found her thigh in the dark, squeezed. Her muscles tightened in response. 

“How about I let you sleep with me tonight?”

Moisture evacuated his mouth. “Your place it is.” 

......

One by one, Tony toed off his dress loafers, shed his suit jacket, and loosened the tie knot from his throat.  A couple stumbling steps and he collapsed onto the bed, releasing a gargantuan sigh that was part exhaustion, part pillowtop-induced bliss. He’d helped her pick it out, after Somalia, without knowing his future self would someday also reap its benefits. 

He dragged his mouth from the duvet. “Ziva!”

Boots grazed the wood floor, closer and closer. Her left hip swerved into view, a sliver of thigh, bare knee, and—yes—all of her. Ziva owed the bedroom doorway, wine glass in hand, glossy ringlets pulled over one shoulder. He was a lucky man. 

“Was shouting necessary, Tony?”

“Wherever we end up living, this bed is coming with us.” 

Her throaty chuckles electrified the skin on the nape of his neck. “I believe that earns me a point.” She tipped the glass. Ruby liquid rushed forward, greedy for her mouth.

“You wish.” Transfixed, he bit his bottom lip. “That wine looks good.”

“It is.” 

“Can I get a taste?”

Ziva set the empty glass on the nightstand, the last drops going down her throat with a deep, visible swallow. 

Miffed, if a little turned on, Tony flopped back, tucking an arm under his head. “You need to repeat kindergarten, Da-veed.” 

“I am fluent in nine languages—why would I need that?” The bed jostled; some part of her—a soft, yielding part—bumped his knee. Everything below his belt was now tingling.

“I meant you need to learn to, uh, share.” His stance lacked emphasis. Ziva stretched out alongside him, not unlike a Greek goddess on a daybed, plumping her lips, tinted and gently smiling. A lucky man, indeed.

“I do not like to share what I love.”  

The brew of her languid words and sweet, heady breath overwhelmed the circuits in his brain that would have furthered their banter, supplied a witty comebacker. All that remained was primal wiring and a longing he often wondered about: how it started under his ribs and spread, a good poison, to the pads of his fingers, the base of his throat, the very bottom of his spine where it gave way to his derrière. His body on her drug.

“Ziva...” Her name danced within the parentheses of their bodies. She answered, leaning, her mouth dead-on aim with his mouth, an infernal latch sealing out air and thought. 

His fingers dove through her hair, weaving strands into reigns, while her hands sought a lower destination on his form, eliciting arches and premature thrusts. Always so eager, his Ziva. 

Tony said as much, gasped over her jaw, planting a kiss there, too; he wasn’t complaining. 

Golden sparks of mischief permeated the midnight of her blown-out pupils. “We must hurry. The food will be here in 30 minutes or less.” 

A bout of mutual chuckles overcame them like a rain shower, shocking and head-clearing. For him, at least. Made room for dangling threads...

“Hey, you know what I was thinking?” 

Ziva hummed, unbuttoning his shirt and nibbling his neck simultaneously. 

“Even if I hadn’t baited Eli—sorry about that, by the way—there was no excuse for how he reacted. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised’ or whatever? I mean, come on, what is that? Not father-of-the-bride material.” 

Tony’s rambling had a cooling effect on his fiancée. Her ministrations stalled and she regarded him with a look he knew well. Seriously, now?

“Right. Sorry.” Using the hand tangled in her curls, he coaxed her back, double-kissed her parted lips. “But it’s just that—”

“Tony! I told you, it does not matter,” Ziva huffed, reclaiming her points of contact from his skin. 

His grip merely shifted, molding to the side of her face. Keeping her with him. In this, together. “Well, it matters to me because it obviously upset you. We can try calling him again tomorrow, if you want.” Though his teeth might be ground-down stubs by the conversations’ end. 

Ziva lapsed into the faraway stare from the ride home, narrowed in on the pattern of his tie, yet somewhere beyond him as well, beyond the bedroom and the apartment that might become theirs, beyond the city itself.  Eventually she blinked and spoke toward his chest. “No. That would not change anything. Abba is...Abba.”

“Yeah.” 

“He will not change, either.”

“But you still want his blessing,” Tony said, circling the rise of her cheekbone with his thumb.

The corners of her eyes creased as she met his gaze. “Why do you say that?” 

“Because for two years you barely mention the guy’s name, unless it’s on the therapist’s couch or in a string of Hebrew I don’t understand. Then we get engaged, and after Gibbs and the team, Eli’s the next person you want to tell the good news.” He wrapped a ringlet around her ear, testing out a smile. “Plus, I am a highly-trained investigator trained to pick up on the subtleties of these things, after all.” 

“Perhaps too well trained.” A rueful admission. 

Tony preened. “Wow, I was just bluffing.”

Swatting his shoulder, Ziva released a noisy tumble of breath. The creases smoothed. Her lips lifted, as did her hands, sliding his face between the matching hollows of her palms. “You asked me what I need, yes?”

“I did.” 

“I need to marry you, Tony DiNozzo, never mind what my father or anyone else thinks. I need you.” 

Mingled determination and grace laid bare to him. Only him. He couldn’t look away. Even as his heartbeat took up, pounding out joy and relief where she rested her elbows, steadying herself by him, shuffling into the shadow of his body. 

“I can definitely help you with that.” The promise whispered through his painful grin, into her hair—just as the doorbell chimed. 

[collectedunkept]

microfiction #5

Stasis crested the four hour mark, and the inhabitants of Car 67 began to grow restless. Delays were normal, of course, but this stoppage was anything but. Since the moment they rumbled to a halt, nervousness festered, and as the sun set in the desert, the decorum of self-containment eroded into whispered discontent.

The screeching brakes had been an omen, unheeded in the moment as another mild annoyance that would eventually rectify itself.

Darla was the first to speak up, gathering her purple skirts as she stood and claimed an accidental authority she never expected to find on an unmoving train. Her voice was small, but as the eyes of Car 67 drew to her, she was bolstered in a way she hadn't felt in years.

"Friends, I don't have any answers. The trouble could be mechanical in nature, but there's no real way of knowing. I am disturbed that we've had no visit from a porter, nor an announcement from the loudspeaker. I want to mention, however, my trust in this mode of transport, and my deferance to the expertise of the crew. Perhaps we've heard naught because of the diligent work to resolve a predicament beyond our understanding."

She took to the aisles, pulling a violet cascade of fabric behind her. Darla tugged at the doors on either end of the car, twice apiece, to no avail. As she paced, the inkling of confidence faltered, and she flopped back into her seat as a shrill voice echoed from the far side of the car.

"Are we trapped?"

The mere mention stirred waves of panic among the passengers, and the whispers transmogrified into a dull roar of indignation. Still, Darla seemed the only one capable of addressing the crowd.

"Please, I beg you, be calm. The unknown is surely frightening, but we've no cause for alarm."

A shriek in the distance punctuated her plea at the precise moment the sun disappeared below the horizon. A hush fell upon the passengers, the taste of fear snatching the complaints from their throats. Car 67 shook violently, and the lights went out. An instant darkness drew inarticulate bursts of concern as a passenger in a khaki trenchcoat smashed the handle of his umbrella into the glass of the rear door.

"We have to get out of here."

Collectively, they weighed their options in silence. Desert loomed in every direction, the arid wind pouring through the shattered window at the back of the car. Another clarion howl spurred Darla away from her worries, and she stood, smoothing her skirt despite its invisibility.

"Perhaps my trust was unfounded. I know not the place to which we will flee, but flee we must."

The train lurched again, and Darla made her way hastily to the back of the car. She delilcately examined the opening, and began to crawl through, beckoning the others to follow. The residual bits of falling glass filled the quiet space between distant, cacophonous cries. Darla offered a breathless request.

"To the east."

As people squeezed through the opening, barely illuminated by the crescent moon, the intensity of the howling descended upon them. Darla began to sprint and the others followed suit, chasing a purple phantom across the sand.