#a sour numbness that's always left behind after a bad conversation with my father . but the acceptance that THAT is just how things are

[crush-like-that]

yup.

(i'm actually screaming the lyrics at the top of my lungs, crying)

[princess-orihime-inoue]

Take a bite out of danger

When she moved into a new home her aunt laid out rules, the first rule was simple, “Stay away from the delinquents in this town.”

It was a simple rule at first, before she met him…

Part 2: Empathy

Boxes, was the first thing he noticed when he entered Orihime’s apartment. They were scattered over the small hallway, and were still un-opened. Orihime let out a breath of relief, she was shocked they weren’t caught. She glanced down at her hand, and noticed she was still holding his hand. “I’m sorry, “she released it as if he was burning and apologized.

“It’s alright,” Ichigo shook his head, he was feeling oddly embarrassed. It was then that he also realized the situation he was in, well scratch that he was still confused as to why he was brought here.

“Sorry I brought you to my home, it’s just that in the heat of the moment this was the closest place we could hide...and I really wanted to treat those injuries as well,” Orihime explained feeling flustered. He shrugged and told her it was okay, as long as they got away from the cops. She sighed and took off her shoes, “I don’t have slippers for males though,” she added, since the only one that visited her was Tatsuki and in rare occasions her aunt. If she were to suddenly show up though, there was no way she could escape her aunt’s wrath or explain why there was a boy in her room.

He took off his shoes and followed her to a little room that seemed to be where she slept, with a little kitchen connected to the right. “It’s fine, but where is your family?”

That’s when he saw the altar, and a picture of a man smiling. Ichigo felt ashamed for asking, and was going to apologize until Inoue interjected. “No need to apologize, my brother died when I was very young,” she went to the kitchen and searched for the first aid kit. “After all there is no way you would know so that’s alright.”

Ichigo could hear the pain in her tone, it was obvious her brother was someone important to her. He went over to the altar to pay his respects and saw the slight glow of a spirit in the frame, it seemed that her older brother felt the same.

“Oh, I found it,” Orihime tried to reach for the kit placed on a high cabinet, she wondered how it got there. She jumped and hit the kit with her fingertips, but it was a futile attempt. Ichigo noticed and made his way toward her, “You need help, Inoue?”

“I don’t want to bother you, oh--” she suddenly felt his broad chest press against her back, his arm graze her own as he grabbed the first aid. Her body felt strangely warm and there was something unsettling in her stomach, his breath fanning her ear was enough to make her knees buckle. “Here you go, sorry I just didn’t want you to fall back,” he took a step back forgetting about their distance.

Orihime swallowed nervously and couldn’t help but avoid his gaze, “Thank you...do you want to sit over here so I can start?”

“Sure,” he sat on the floor near a small coffee table and watched as she sat beside him and pulled her hair back into a high ponytail. Her shirt riding up, exposing soft milk skin, he felt his heart accelerate and he quickly looked away. “S-So you live here all alone?” He tried to distract his mind to something else.

Orihime opened the kit and grabbed a cotton ball to drip alcohol onto, “Yes, my aunt owns these apartments. She lives on the other side though.”

The conversation was sounding oddly sour he noticed, and his skin felt hot. “What about you, Kurosaki-kun? You live with your family?”

He winced as she started to clean the cut on his forehead, “Yeah, I live with my dad and two little sisters. My mother passed away when I was young. Even if she is gone my dad still loves her very dearly.”

“My deepest condolences, and that is very sweet of your father,” her smile was sad as she started to work on his bruised eye. There was a bruise forming near that cut, and she wondered if that was due to the brick. Orihime stood up and went to retrieve ice real quick, when she sat down again she noticed a glow in his eyes.

“Sweet, I guess that’s one way of putting it. The old man has a huge photo of her in the house and constantly reports to her about everything, she was his world...she was our world,” his voice started to fade and Orihime stopped to watch as his face fell as he thought about his mother.

“You must have really loved her too.”

“Yes, and I still do,” his lips formed a warm smile.

Orihime couldn’t look away at the sincere expression he made, in class today all he did was wear a furrowed face. But just talking about his mother was enough to let him show a side she didn’t know. It made her recall of her own brother, before the accident. He used to be her own world, a safe haven for her to come back to every day. “Oh, the ice,” she remembered and leaned forward to place the bag gently against his forehead, “could you hold this?”

Ichigo complied and closed his eyes as the cool bag numbed the pain, Orihime got another cotton ball and scooted closer so she could clean the cut near his lip. “You tend to get into a lot of fights,” Orihime stated as she glided the cotton ball over his skin, watching as he shuddered and bit his lower lip.

I wish I could heal all his wounds, she thought silently.

Ichigo chuckled, “Not voluntarily. Everyone always wants to pick a fight with me, it got worse since I entered High School.”

“It did? Why?”

“Because of my hair, they think I’m a delinquent,” he shrugged in annoyance and added with a sigh, “not to mention they always mention my face. Something about how I look mad all the time, and how I’m rude for glaring.”

Orihime couldn’t understand, she thought he was really handsome, “I think your face is funny.”

He gave her a confused look, “My face is...funny?”

“Oh! No, I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Orihime tried to clarify, her face flushed in embarrassment as she leaned away. But it was too late his head lowered in dejection, and she didn’t know how to explain that his expression reminded her of a comedian.

“I don’t know about that, it really hurt my feelings,” he couldn’t help but go along with the act as he noticed how flustered she got. It was rather fun teasing her and watch her get embarrassed. He wanted to see more of these expressions she had.

Orihime continued to apologize, until she noticed that his chest was heaving as he tried to hold back from laughing, “You lied?”

Ichigo raised his face and bit his bottom lip as he nodded, “Well you said I look funny.”

“But you are very handsome,” she defended and quickly felt her face get hotter at her outburst.

“How can I be funny looking and handsome?” Ichigo asked as he leaned forward with a quizzical stare.

She felt his warm breath on her face as he got closer, and swallowed nervously as she tried to find the words in her mouth. He was too close, and she didn’t know where to look.

Ichigo placed his hand on her waist, and slowly pulled her toward him. He felt his heart ringing in his ears, clouding his judgement. He just knew that he wanted to be close to her, feel her under his skin. To taste her--

His phone suddenly rang and he leaned away in disappointment.

Wait, why am I disappointed? Ichigo thought with confusion.

Orihime sighed in relief, she couldn’t breathe or think properly when he was that close. But she was also conflicted because she wanted to know what would have happened if no one had interrupted.

Ichigo hung up from his conversation, “Sorry about that, it seems I have to go home and help out my dad.”

“That’s alright, just make sure to take it slow,” they both stood up and she noticed the slight limp on his right knee. “Please also make sure to look after your injuries, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Something warm fluttered in his stomach and rose to his chest, he smiled and nodded at her concern. It was weird, he had never had a girl other than his sisters worry about him.

“Thank you for saving me today,” Ichigo bowed as he started to make his way out. “And for treating my wounds,” he added as he picked up his backpack.

“You’re welcome, just be careful on your way back home,” Orihime couldn’t help but giggle. She could only watch as he turned and waved goodbye, the image of his broad back was all she could see.

It was weird, the moment he left she felt oddly alone...

---

“Good morning Kurosaki-kun!”

Ichigo didn’t have to look to know who’s warm greeting that was, “Morning Inoue.”

Tatsuki's eyebrows were raised with curiosity, she turned to Orihime and asked, “Since when did you and Ichigo get along?”

“Since yesterday,” she replied with a captivating smile. “You were right he really is a good guy.”

Ichigo went over to his desk unaware of everyone staring at him and Orihime with the same curiosity as Tatsuki. “How-- why, Inoue and you?” Keigo stammered with shock as he sank to the floor beside Ichigo’s seat. Mizuiro came and smirked with interest, “I agree with Keigo, didn’t you say she was nothing special?”

Ichigo took out his homework and sat down. “Did I say that?”

“You did, which is why it’s weird that you are suddenly getting along with her,” Mizuiro took a seat behind Ichigo and started to prepare for first period. “Especially since it has only been a day or two since she came here.”

“Inoue…?”

Ichigo turned to face a tall figure taking a seat in the last row, he couldn’t help the relieved grin on his face. “Chad, you’re back! You finally got released from the hospital,” Ichigo had visited two days ago, but he wasn’t informed of when his friend’s injuries would heal. “I’m glad that you look fine.”

“Yes...thank you,” Chad nodded, he wanted to tell Ichigo that he was sorry that he had taken a break from fighting alongside him, but he was also interested in his connection with the new student. He wanted to ask about yesterday, when he saw Ichigo getting pulled into that girl’s apartment in a hurry. 

“Chad, you alright?” Ichigo raised his brow in concern, it looked like his friend was getting swallowed with thoughts. Chad nodded in response and decided not to comment on it, after all it was not his business to interfere. But he couldn’t help but smile when he recalled the look Ichigo had when he was with her.

---

Three weeks, it felt like time was passing by so fast.

Ichigo yawned as he slouched against his chair, he was getting tired from studying late at night for the exam coming up this Friday. He was going to try to aim for the top 25 this semester, so that Miss. Ochi would stop bothering him about that low quiz he got last week. Which was sadly due to him being too tired from helping out in his father’s clinic. But this time it’s different, he has been studying and is prepared to show that he is responsible.

“Orihime you are back, so how did it go?”

Ichigo glanced at the interaction between Tatsuki and Orihime, he couldn’t help but hear as Inoue told her she had respectfully rejected the third year. It was the twenty-eight confession she had received since she transferred. Well according to Keigo that is.

He didn’t know why he cared about such trivial things though, but...

It was weird he hasn’t had a proper conversation with Inoue besides the usual greetings. Since he didn’t have any reason to call out to her during school, he was agitated that he could not approach her and just talk normally. Every-time he did try to talk to her it would end by someone else joining in, it was annoying.

“Inoue-san, excuse me can I talk to you about after school?”

Ichigo raised his head and watched as Inoue agreed and started to talk to the guy with glasses in a small voice. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but it was clear that she was very comfortable with him. “Yes, I will see you after school,” she giggled and made her way back to Tatsuki.

Who was he? Ichigo narrowed his eyes as he watched him sit down near the third row.

“What’s wrong Ichigo?” Mizuiro asked noticing the glare he was sending to their classmate. He had been watching in interest as Ichigo got annoyed over the exchange between Orihime and Ishida. Chad couldn’t help but mentally agree with Mizuiro through a nod.

“Nothing, I just never noticed him, “he muttered lowly in response.

“You mean Ishida? He has always been in our class since last year,” Mizuiro was honestly surprised at how oblivious Ichigo was with his own classmates.

Chad added, “He is in the Sewing club with Orihime too.”

Mizuiro clicked his tongue, he wanted to torment Ichigo a little more. But now his friend was nodding and forgetting that he was annoyed just a few minutes ago. So much for that...well there is always next time, Mizuiro thought with a sly glow in his eyes, it was about time Ichigo realized his feelings.

“Really? That’s cool I guess, I never noticed,” Ichigo stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

Tonight he had to remind himself to finish studying, there’s no need to think about anything else but his ranking for the English exam.

---

Green Tea Mochi Ice cream, and a chocolate chip cookie.

That’s what she had bought for snacks to energize her for tonight as she continued to study for tomorrow’s exam. She had already read all five chapters and make a review for them, all that was left was to do one extra reading.

Her hair fluttered around her and she squealed at the fresh gush of wind of the night, it was such a beautiful night. “Maybe someday~ Could it happen to me too~” she sang and twirled to the music she had heard in the morning. She started to make her way to the park stairs, when she suddenly felt her bag hit something hard.

“Ouch!” the hard object said, and she stopped in her tracks realizing she had hit someone sitting on the stairs. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Orihime apologized as she bowed. “I didn’t know someone was sitting here!” “It’s alright,” the voice started but paused when it noticed the owner of the voice, “Inoue?”

“Huh? Kurosaki-kun?”

She hadn’t expected to bump into him this late at night...then again it wouldn’t be the first time they have crossed paths.

Ichigo sat up straight and closed the book he was reading. “Inoue what are you doing out so late?”

Orihime raised the bag in her hand, and sat down next to him. “I went to go buy some snacks from the convenience store. What about you?”

“I was taking a short break from studying,” he looked up at the full moon with a calm collected sigh, “After all it’s such a pretty night to go out.”

She nodded and stretched her legs out, “I understand, it really is beautiful.”

He glanced over to where she sat, her hair blowing along with the wind, twirling strands against her delicate lips. Having her so close he realized yet again how captivating she was, how sweet she smelled, and how... Ichigo brought his attention back to the book he was holding, he felt conflicted about these thoughts.

“Would you like to eat this cookie? I got it for free when I bought my ice cream,” Orihime explained as she took them out from the bag.

“Are you sure?”

Orihime handed him the cookie with a wide toothy smile, “I am very sure.”

Ichigo thanked her and then asked out of curiosity, “Aren’t you worried?”

“Worried about what?”

“About hanging around at night with a guy like me?”

“That’s a weird question, considering the fact that I have already invited you to my apartment,” she opened the lid of the container and added, “I trust you, and I know that you are very kind. You are one of the few guys I can talk to like this.”

Ichigo was feeling a growing annoyance in his chest, it felt like he couldn’t concentrate. Yet he voiced it out in a hard tone, “What about that Ikida guy?”

“Huh?” Orihime thought for a moment and then asked, “Do you mean Ishida-kun?”

Ichigo nodded as if he hadn’t just made a mistake, “Yeah, Ishida.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing really,” Ichigo tried to dismiss, suddenly regretting mentioning that glasses guy.

“Don’t tell me you are also interested in joining the Sewing Club?” Her eyes lit up with hope for a new member.

Ichigo answered rather quickly, “No I’m not.”

“Then is it that you want to be friends with him?”

He remembered the glare that Ishida sent him during gym, and thought about it. How can he explain that Ishida was not that easy to talk to? Not to mention it looked like the guy hated him for no reason.

Orihime as if she read his thoughts said, “Ishida is really nice, although he looks disinterested he is not, in fact he is very shy.”  

“Is he now?” Ichigo highly doubt that guy was shy.

She smiled and looked at her remaining mochi. “Yes, just give him a chance and I’m sure you guys can be friends. He doesn’t have many friends, because they tend to judge without knowing him.”

That he could understand perfectly well, people always judge him because of his hair and eyes. Maybe she was right, Ishida isn’t a bad guy. Tomorrow he was determined to greet him, and who knows maybe they might get along.

He glanced over at her and noticed something green peeking from her hair. “Wait, you have a leaf stuck on your hair,” he pointed at the spot and although she tried to get it off, it seemed she couldn’t get it. Ichigo let out a small chuckle and leaned forward to catch the leaf, “Let me get it for you.”

“Thank you…” her voice was like honey to the ears. His fingers lingered for just a moment against her soft hair, before he leaned away and met her gaze.

Ichigo couldn’t help but melt into her warm dark eyes, he twirled the leaf in between his fingers and swallowed the lump in his throat. “It was nothing,” he whispered and turned his face away. He was surprised at how flustered he was getting from just running his hand through her hair. Ichigo definitely did not want her to see how embarrassed he was, thankfully it was too dark for her to notice.

“Kurosaki-kun?”

“It’s getting late. I’ll walk you home, after all it is dangerous at night,” he offered suddenly. Orihime hesitated, but agreed as they both stood up awkwardly.

The walk although silent was rather comfortable and it made her feel lightheaded. She was trying to understand what these feelings meant. It was something she has never experienced before. But the answer was clear once they got to the apartment complex.

“Good luck tomorrow,” Ichigo found it hard to say goodbye, he wanted to stay a bit longer by her side.

“You too...goodnight,” she waved goodbye.

“See you tomorrow,” he waved back.

So this is love? Orihime thought as she watched him leave down the dark road, hoping he will turn back and look her way. Her heart was still pounding from when he ran his fingers through her hair, but... But he probably only saw her as just a friend...a classmate. “What am I thinking? I better go inside and finish studying,” she told herself, and hurried to go back to her room.

Unaware that he had turned to make sure she got into her room safely.

---

“So what are you going to do tomorrow? Any plans?” Tatsuki asked as they made their way back to class from the cafeteria. They had been so tired in the morning that they had forgotten to bring lunch, and had to battle their way into the mob of students. Luckily they had gotten some delicious bread, thanks to some older senpai.

“Not really, I was just going to clean my room and read the upcoming chapters for the Mathematical exam on Tuesday,” Orihime smiled as they turned the corner to go up the stairs.

“You are too diligent Orihime,” her friend couldn’t help but chuckle, “well if you want I--”

Ka-chick!

“Did you hear that?” Tatsuki narrowed her eyes and looked around the stairs for the source of the sound. She could have sworn she heard someone take a picture, it’s scary how common it was getting for her to hear that shrill noise.

“No, I didn’t hear it,” Orihime shook her head, she was getting distracted thinking about the exam they were about to take next period. Last night she was reviewing the study sheets she had made, and was still a bit nervous.

“I swear if I catch anyone taking a picture of you without your permission, I won’t hesitate to sink my fist down their--”

The bell rang drowning her threat into a loud ring that alerted them on how late they were. “Shit, we better get to class before the exam starts,” Tatsuki grabbed Orihime’s hand and they both started to run to their class in a hurry.

Both unaware of the owner of the camera sound lurking under the stairs.

[broken-hearts-lives-among-us]

Pretending (Part 3) Jughead J. x Reader

Summary: Drama in Riverdale seems to never end, your home-life was a mess, your past was still hunting you, yet, breaking up with your boyfriend was the last straw that broke the camel’s back. How are you supposed to go through all the chaos that was coming? Are you going to keep pretending to be the normal nice girl? Or his your heart willing to reveal it’s true skin?

Part 1 Part 2

Pairing: Jughead Jones x reader

Words: 3048

Note: English isn’t my first language, I deeply apologize for any mistake.

The news of who killed Jason Blossom didn’t took long to get to your ears, having the pleasure of being notify by Sheriff Keller himself, the fact that Clifford Blossom murdered his own son was a sour event for the town with pep.

Although that wasn’t the end of the path and the suicide of the Blossom father didn’t made things easier, the responsible was no longer in this life to pay for his actions, and Riverdale’s Master of Justice wouldn’t be happy until someone got the check, that’s why FP was now facing a court about how many damn years it will take to pay the debt.

For you, things were just slightly better, after the video of the fatidic homicide was released to the forces involved, your lie wasn’t substantial enough to keep the image of being part of Jason’s death, but, you’re still being judge as an accomplice for giving a false statement at your confession and hiding the truth.

Yet, Kevin was keeping you updated about the information he eavesdropped from his father, he even heard Josie begging his mother to sneak a hand and help you not going to jail, that melted your heart away, you knew Josie was fond with you since you’ve always help the Pussycats with their outfits and stuff, but the fact that she was that worried about you was just the cutest thing ever.

Things seemed like they were just moving forward.

Maybe the sun was raising again in Riverdale

Maybe finally all this nightmare was ending.

Oh, how wrong you are.

“Hey.” Said that low-deep voice that still haunted you in your dreams.

“Hey.” You muttered without shifting your position, siting in the floor leaning your back against the cell bars, you felt him mirroring your position leaning his back against yours, the only thing forbidding the touch were those rusty iron bars.

Your heart started pounding at three hundred miles per second, this was the first conversation with Jughead since you practically told him to“Left you alone and fuck off” and lately all your talks ended up being a mess, the depth between you were just growing bigger and bigger.

“My father might be facing 20-40 years… They offered him a deal, he could spill out some names of the Serpents and that could low the sentence…”

“FP wouldn’t accept that. He’s just to stubborn and loyal…” you said closing your eyes, analyzing the new information cautiously.

“I know… I just, everything is so wrong you know…?” He sighed making your heart to swell, you slipped a hand between the bars to hold his, you squeezed it slightly as you two entangled fingers.

It was such and innocent and subtle touch, yet it made the whole world feel safe.

“How is your case?” he asked slowly, enjoying the little lazily whispering chats he has missed so much.

“I honestly don’t know… I had heard a lot of things I’m not sure what to believe, I think that in the best situation I’ll be set free with some community service job.”

“That’s great!” he cheered silently, a sincere smirk twitching at his face. “The social services were at Archie’s home today…” he added when you nodded.

“Oh, so you too.” You said quietly surprised, it wasn’t something you expected to happen, you thought that everything was okay with the Andrews taking care of him.

“What do you mean by “me too”? Did they come to see you?” he asked turning his head, facing your back.

“Oh no, no, no, they came for Tobias.” You said tightening the grip in his hand involuntary.

“Wait, what?” he said surprise turning his hole body to face you.

“Yeah, the day my house burned down.” You added casually, the more you said it out loud, the more realistic it became.

“Excuse me?” he said amused making you roll your eyes.

“Do I have to repeated it or what?”

“Actually, that would be pretty helpful, you’re welcomed to tell me everything from the beginning.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You grunted.

“No, that’s not the point, the point is why we haven’t talk about that? Why you didn’t come to me?” he sounded hurt, and truly concerned, maybe you were being a little too hard…

You shifted, locking eyes with him. “It happened the same day FP got arrested.” You sighed. “My aunt accidentally, well I want to believe it was an accident, she threw a lightning match onto the floor and I didn’t notice until the fire started, and then the police took her and then the social services came, and Tobias was gone and… and I basically lost my home and my family in a matter of hours.” You said as quickly and summarized as you could.

You never broke the eye contact as you admired his shocked features, even in awe he was so freaking handsome, like the way his iconic lock of hair in front of his eyes contrasted with the lovely blue-icy orbs, and his slightly parted lips looked so plumb and tempting.

“You should have told me all of this before.” You read his lips rather than listening to his voice.

“Why?” you asked raising your eyes to meet his. “I’m not your deal anymore, your charity cause is over, now you have a girlfriend to take care of.” There was resentment in your heart, yet not in your statement, the words you said just leaved your mouth cold and numb, as if it wasn’t meant to mean something.

He cut your staring contest, looking down at his clenching fits. “What I said that day… I didn’t really mean it, I didn’t want things to ended like it did.”

“But it did… And it hurt, and at some point, I truly believed you meant it, Jughead…” you broke the hold on his hand, missing the feeling of your finger intertwined. “You have Betty now… And she has you, and I believe everything is okay with that.”

“I don’t really know… Like, today she wrote an article defending the Southside, and she was called “Serpent Slut”. I don’t want to be a burden to her, she’s pretty awesome…” he confessed resting his face against the cell.

“Yeah, that’s pretty cool and reckless.” You comment looking out of the window.

‘I mean, I give an illegal false statement to give your family the chance to be together again, and I might be facing jail because I wanted to protect your father, but yeah, a news article it’s pretty cool too.’ You couldn’t help but think with jealously, rolling your eyes at him.

“What?” he said snapping you out of your world.

“What, what?”

“You just rolled your eyes at me.”

“No, I didn’t.” you said restraining a blush to creep from your cheeks.

Suddenly a smug smirk appeared in his face.

“What?” you said frowning, kind of anticipating his answer.

“Are you jealous, Y/N?”

You looked at him in disbelieve, did he really say that?

You stood up at the same time that him, ready to smack that idiotic beautiful smile out of his dumb face. Yet, Sheriff Keller appeared to save the situation, well, he just saved Jughead’s ass, maybe he came to cut your head off already.

“Y/N Y/L/N, it’s time for you to face the court.” He said opening the cell, you nodded silently locking eyes with Jug as you walked out of the cage.

Keller leaded the way and you followed him silently, sharing a last with Jughead before disappearing from his visual camp.

How was fate going to treat after all this years? Would it smile at you for once, or kick you in the guts again?

~

The white soft blanked of snow was embracing the path that the loner boy and the perfect next-door-girl were walking through as they talked, leaving their foot marks behind.

“I just said Betts, that it’s like if the whole universe was telling me I don’t belong here, that everything is better without me being here… Even you, the school idiots would let you alone and in peace if it wasn’t because of me…” he said to her thinking about the events of the day, the decision between staying and going was actually killing his mind.

“I don’t believe in that Juggy… Riverdale is your home as much as mine, and here you have us, we can take care of you… In the Southside you would be all by your own, and that worries me…” the blonde said hugging his boyfriend’s arm, he smirked at her caring speech, thinking all her words one by one.

“I would have Y/N.” he mentioned trying to cheer her up, yet, it felt like it had the reversed effect as she tensed up.

“Honestly Juggy… We don’t really know if she’s going to get free from what she did…” she stopped their tracks caressing his cheek.

“I’ve the feeling she will… She didn’t really do anything bad, I mean, she didn’t know she was defending Clifford Blossom, she just tried to help.”

“She lied to a cop, that’s illegal Juggy.” She argued with a sighed, insecurity traveling to her eyes.

“Hey…” The boy’s factions softened noticing the problem in the girl between his arms. “It doesn’t matter what happens… I’m sure it won’t change anything between us.” He assured her kissing her lips smoothly, trying to ease the problems from her mind, even though, deep inside of him he wasn’t completely sure about his words.

For the first time it was the loner boy who was being fight by two precious hearts, and it scared him like nothing more.

~

Jughead’s Pov.

At Riverdale you had the jogs, the nerds, the artists, the popular elite, and pretty much everything a normal cliché High School poses, the Southside wasn’t more different, aside from the fact that instead of dealing with bully jogs, we have the Ghoulies, who are drug dealers, yay.

The poor state of the building also leaves much to desire, and what about all the security protocol? Yeah sure, the reputation of the south was nothing near good, but I don’t really like to be check by a security guard every morning.

I was currently being dragged by this Toni Topaz Southside Serpent girl who was giving me the tour around the school’s hallways, sharing with me some facts, or more like, warnings about what to do or no to in order to survive.

As I spaced out vaguely hearing her words I couldn’t help but think about Y/N, I haven’t heard of her since Sheriff Keller took her that day, and besides that, how was she dealing with a place like this?

“Hey.” I said turning my face to Toni, apparently interrupting something she was saying. “Do you know Y/N?”

She laughed as soon as my words left my mouth. “Everybody knows her Jones, after what she did for your father… Woah, seriously she has like the massive respect from the Serpents now.”

I blinked twice, portraying her like this kind of Serpent Queen which made me feel something bittersweet.

“But I knew her even before that, I went to her house when it burnt, tragic day, I can still hear her cry in my mind.” She sighed, I could tell she was picturing the image in her eyes.

I didn’t say a think, feeling lost at his words, feeling sick at the picture of she crying, in front of the flames, seeing all her life crashing down, and, where was I? In some fancy dinner at the Cooper’s, in a ridiculous suit enjoying that sort of manipulated trap made by Alice?

I felt the regret and the impotence building up my chest, and it didn’t leave me through the rest of the lessons, apparently no one has listen from Y/N, I couldn’t concentrate as the doubts stared to ring in my mind.

What if I never saw her again?

What if she passes the rest of her young life in jail?

What if she feels alone?

And if her jail mates don’t treat her well?

What if she doesn’t like the food?

Oh god, what if she’s never able to try a burger from Pop’s again?

What if she managed to scape from the justice and now she’s a run-away criminal?

‘Okay Jughead, stop it. Overthinking is an asshole and you know that, screw it up already.’ I sigh trying to calm myself as I seated alone at the canteen ready to read my book and ignore everyone else.

Surprised was my faced when a bunch of people took a sit at my table, and they didn’t hit me, or mocked at me, they just talk to me.

They even laugh at my sardonic humor rather than see me as an emotionless human being.

It was kind of refreshing.

I smiled as I saw them laugh, but it didn’t distract me from the sudden presence behind me.

Y/N?

I turned, being welcomed by the awe, and the slightly disappointment, of being faced by Betty, Archie and Veronica. What the hell were they doing at the Southside?

I ended up with the crew at the outsiders of the high school, talking with Betty about my decision of voluntarily moving to the rotten side of the apple.

“Betty come on… This place, I feel like here were I got wanted, they seem to need and, and they respect me! I kind of fit in here…” I said caressing her arms, trying to explain her that I did feel some sort of comfortability at this the place.

“And what about us Jughead? What about me? I need you too.” She crossed her arms looking at me with concern? Disapproval? Confusion? I didn’t quite know, too many emotions.

Though I could feel her sad demeaner as I embraced her tightly. “I promise you I’ll be there for you, even if I’m here.” I soothed, catching with the glimpse of and eye the eager staring of a ginger haired as I kissed my girlfriend’s hands.

Yet our moment didn’t last longer as the raven-haired girl of the group read her message, whose words froze our blood as we ran to save Riverdale’s Blossom princess before she drowned in despair.

~

“The whole town is going crazy Dad, I mean, Cheryl just tried to committed suicide in the same place her twin died, it feels surreal…” the beanie boy whispered uneasy, facing the glowing moon through the jail’s window.

“That’s why I need to stick with the ones that have my back, Jughead. I’m not giving any names to Sheriff Keller or Major McCoy.” He looked at me, decision glowing at his eyes. “Just like Y/N did to protect me, it was a dumb decision, but I appreciated it.”

“I don’t know where she is, no one knows… Dad, what if we don’t see her again?”

“Do you care?” FP asked raising an eyebrow, yet he knew he knew the answer.

“Of course, I do, I miss her.” Jughead confessed. “I have missed her all this months and… I thought I could handle being without her because it was just temporally, until she was okay with me again, but if it’s permanent, if her absence becomes permanent… I don’t know what I’ll do…” Jughead confessed overwhelmed by everything that was happening in his life so suddenly.

“Why do you care for her so much son?”

“well, she’s Y/N… She has always been there, she’s important to me, my best friend!”

FP chuckled softly. “You’re brilliant Jug, except when it comes to women and love.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert dad? Wanna teach me something?”

“Oh no, son.” He smiled a me halfhearted. “You’re going to be okay…”

They shared a glance, a sort of confident, heartwarming son-father connection. “Yeah, I’m gonna be okay… A foster family is taking me away. They are nice.” he added rolling my eyes, a smile leaving my lips.

“What about Southside High?” FP stand up walking towards his son, never leaving his eyes.

“It’s a high school.” Jughead looked at his dad pointing the obvious. “It’s got the jocks, and the burnouts, and the nerds, and all of that.” He sighed. “I’ll survive.” He reassured, a cocky grin in his face.

FP chuckled at that. “You just might.” His demeanor went serious as he nodded. “Jughead, listen to me. I’m more innocent than I am guilty, but I’ve done some stupid things, some bad things, and come what may, I have to answer for my part of it, you understand? I don’t know what’s gonna happen when this goes to trial, but you need to be there for your mom, for Jellybean.”

“I’ll do my best.” The beanie boy promised.

“Not a doubt in my mind.” Said the Serpent’s boss as he watched at his son we a smile before the chat finished, before he walked away.

To go and meet his friends are the Jubilee.

So, they could go to Pop’s and have a lot of milkshakes.

And just like that, for a moment, the kids were just being kids.

The world, for a while, became safe again.

And then, overwhelmed by the situation, the beanie boy took his blonde girlfriend to his father’s trailer.

So, he could share with her the words his heart was willing to say.

The words that could bring light to his darkness.

“I love you, Betty Cooper.” He said with warm heart eyes, is lips parted slightly retaining some air as he waited for her answer.

A second of silence, yet it felt like years.

“Jughead Jones, I love you.” Said she with the sweetest smile.

That’s how a kiss turned into another.

The heat beginning to rise at their chest.

Passion overwhelming the room.

They moved.

She crashed against the cupboard as he lifts her up at the countertop.

Her shirt got missing at the floor.

His shirt went to find hers.

He kissed her hungrily, his hand caressing her neck possessive.

Kisses rolled lower.

She moaned.

A knock on the door popped their bubble.

They jumped scared.

“Oh, my God. Is that your mom?” he asked with widen white eyes.

“Who else would it be?” the girl huffed as she got off searching for her shirt.

He opened the door.

Yet, it wasn’t her mom.

It was his ex.

Hello~ it took me a little more to update because this days were crazy. Also, the amount of short is shorter than usual but I really wanted this part to end like it did!! Next part is on the making and it’ll be at least 4500 words.  

See you peaches! <3

Next part: Some sassy serpent reader struggling with Jughead at the Southside High, how will her change affect him?

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Tag List:

@somethingweird168 @evanpeters3826 @trumpettay @oxoxo0 @superhalsteads @the-mad-girl-with-a-book @beforethebraces @agusdoti @zarinnaaaa @unaveragewriterfreak @k-n-e @letsdosciencekids  

[was-gryff-whitehills-apologist]

So, with a lot of encouragement from the amazing people in this fandom, I finally got the courage to contribute some written material to it, namely - my take on the fate of Gryff Whitehill following the events of the ttgot season 2 au, made by the amazing @badgershite & @littlpeggy, as well as other contributors. You guys are awesome & I never would’ve done this without you!! :D

This is merely the first part of the prologue, that, I hope, will be just the beginning, but it’s still kind of a big deal for me to put up my first serious work. Idk what else to say, I hope this doesn’t suck & somebody may even enjoy it, same way I’ve enjoyed all the great fanfiction by other ttgot fans.

Minor spoiler alert, so that people don’t get their hopes up - there is no Roslin in this part. Yet. As I’ve already said, I plan to write more of this & the best stuff is still ahead. ALSO, the thing might be rather cronologically weird, it has a specific structure, that I thought of when I wasn’t planning to split up the prologue. It’ll make more sense when both parts are out, so for now I’d like to clarify - it is basically Gryff’s flashbacks about two days: the day of him being sentenced to the Wall, and the day of his arrival there. They are divided in parts & going one after another. Hopefully, this will not be too confusing.

Being put on watch alongside Carn was a lesser evil in Gryff’s eyes. At the very least he could count on the man not to start any small talk, and that was enough for him to tolerate the sour expression the other wore like his face had frozen this way. As the cage slowly dragged the two of them up, the second watcher felt like a constant, relentless presence behind his shoulder, and Gryff could practically feel his sad, watery gaze glued to his back without any particular purpose. Clenching his teeth together & hands around metal bars in annoyance, he tried to distract himself by looking down, in the darkness. Ground had long since disappeared in thick mist – now it felt like they were just floating through nothing, and he honestly wouldn’t mind just staying this way, never really arriving anywhere, simply enjoying the darkness & silence, that soothed his sight & ears. Even Carn’s presence would be tolerable this way.

Only atop the Wall, equipped with their torches, the two of them parted ways. Normally, it would be sworn Night Watch brothers, rangers, tasked with patrolling, but things scarcely ever went normally at Castle Black lately. Actual rangers were even fewer in numbers than they used to be, and some of their usual tasks fell onto the newcomers – it didn’t take much skill or brains to drag yourself back & forth with a torch in your hand, ready to holler if you’d see something approaching from behind the Wall. That, unless you weren’t even capable of doing that without slipping down – but such men would not have lasted long here either way.

Gryff walked off in the opposite direction from Carn before the man could say a thing to him, and soon couldn’t even hear his steps anymore. Torches lit up the icy corridor for many steps forward, but darkness, where their light didn’t reach, was still almost tangible. When he reached a wooden observation deck, walking close to the edge, the light of his torch, that seemed bright before, could barely dispel it. That night there was no moon, neither stars in the sky to shed at least some light on the view in front of him, and it took some adjustment for Gryff’s eye to make anything out.

The Haunted Forrest, when you looked at it from high above, was reminiscent of sea – height & darkness making it look akin to deep waters at the bottom of an enormous cup. In broad daylight, it used to present quite a sight, but now it was just black, distant and… ominous, for the lack of better word. It spread for as far as eye could reach, it’s another edge hidden in the dark nightly fog & the very clouds, that touched mountains’ white peaks at the horizon. Endless, deep and silent, but in the back of Gryff’s mind always sat the realization – the seemingly peaceful view in front of him hid more, than it gave away.

Even half a minute of not moving out here, in the cold, made one feel like the freezing wind was getting under their skin, stealing the last bits of warmth. However, Gryff remained standing, gaze locked where the clouds met mountain tops. He knew, if he were to look down, at the very edge of the deck, the sheer sensation of height would become overwhelming and make him feel unsteady on his feet, his head spin & hands tremble. Despite everything, being up here was… special, and not necessarily in a bad way. It took his mind off the shit that was happening literally all the other time, off his own torturous thoughts, which made quite a bit of sense, actually. Things were different up here – even air he breathed in was not the same one he was inhaling the rest of the time. Life could continue to go to hell, both around Gryff & inside his own head, but on this small, unsteady platform atop the world, he did not need to be bothered. Just a few steps forward laid the edge of that very life – where it would no longer have any power over him.

It was still the forest though, that he kept going back to in his mind. Similar to that damn grove near Ironrath, in a way – the only places where he had ever witnessed trees grow that tall. Even some ironwoods grew the other side of the Wall, but he was long past caring about those, and now his thoughts were occupied by something different – what he had first witnessed at that very keep, what the wilderness further north hid, and what he hoped he would never face again – until it became apparent he might actually have to.

The undead.

It was quite a surprise to find out, that not all men of the Watch actually saw wights as a threat – despite the number of people, who had run in them, growing significantly. Many of those who never had the chance, however, remained skeptical or simply indifferent. Stories of dead men walking grew in numbers, but for many, remained just that – stories. What happened to the previous lord commander made quite a few waver in their disbelief, but was soon reduced to nothing more, than one more story. Confined in a black keep at the edge of the world for life, most men here fell into an odd pattern of reacting strongly to whatever unusual thing happened – only to go back to almost complete tranquility as soon as it was over. Few things mattered in the big picture as long as snow still fell, crows were still in black & the Wall still stood. The rest came & went & made no significant change. There was nothing to be done with it, other from turn it into one more story & then slowly, day by day, forget it.

Such way of life correlated well with the numbness in his mind, but Gryff still remained sharp about some things. He’d avoid whatever talk about wights other watchmen would start – just as he avoided most of their talk – but he still knew. The sight of corpses of the people he used to know standing up would flash before his mind eye every now and again, but he’d then just clench his teeth & move on. He ran from them once, and paid for it, and if fate would wish for another walking corpse to try & kill him – it best be prepared for him not to repeat that mistake. Back in the muddy & bloodied courtyard, they filled his whole being with such dread, that he thought nothing could replicate, but he was wrong, as always. There were things so much more worse, viler, and he was a fool for ever allowing himself to forget that. Clenching the torch harder in his grip, teeth gritted together & eye narrowed, Gryff looked in the darkness, where he knew more monsters were waiting for their time to come. When they would, he knew what had to be done – and he would be ready. No creature from stories, no wildling, or wight, or Other would scare him off again

Not after he had already left all the real monsters behind.

Hardly feeling a thing, he got up from his place, then passed the woman, looking directly at her, but failing to keep a picture of her face in his mind. In the back of his head, he understood lady Whitehill looked sad, almost childishly hurt, but that was it. She left zero impression, just some figure that was there & then vanished the moment he left the Great Hall. Gryff even had trouble recalling what she was doing during their “conversation” – looking at Torrhen… probably, or maybe at him, he wasn’t sure.

As the bars clanked when the door closed behind him, he froze for a moment, simply staring in front of himself, his fogged mind struggling to process what just happened. He was not dead, that much was clear, but such an unexpected occurrence rose another question – what the hell was he supposed to be doing now? Instinctively, a step-by-step course of action was forming – he needed to get to his room to fetch the things he was not going to leave here, no, not a fucking chance, visit his father’s crypt to say goodbye, and then- leave?

Yeah, genius, that’s what it was all about. That’s what he was told to do a fucking minute ago, that’s what was going to happen – he would leave. And this time, going back wasn’t a part of the plan – no, Torrhen has made a bloody decision, and there was no coming back from those. This was final.

Gryff had imagined it thousands of times, Torrhen towering over him, smirking & spitting out his death sentence in one way or another. In his fantasies, he was never supposed to abide by that – he would grab the sword & charge forward, knowing fully well he’d hardly deliver a strike before he’d be dead, by Torrhen’s hand or one of his guards’ arrows. If he happened to be tied up, restrained, all he’d be capable of would be struggling to break free, to maybe deliver a final punch or some shit, before being put down like a dog. But that didn’t matter – he always knew, that he could never win. The point was not winning – the point was going down on his own terms, going down fighting.

Or has it turned out, that he wasn’t even capable of that?

It felt like his head had been put underwater – Gryff was all too familiar with the sensation, even if right now there was no hand on the back of his neck to hold him in place. The world around him starting to swirl, noise filling his ears, suffocation grasping his lungs. A tiny still-functioning piece of his brain screamed for him to turn back & do what had to be done, but his instincts knew better. Cursed self-preservation, too strong to fight, that had so many times caused him not to strike back, and instead cower, uselessly try to shield himself from the beating, trembling & waiting for it to end. For all he knew, perhaps it was the only reason he still lived. Perhaps it was saving his life right now, by immobilizing him, making his limbs heavy & head light. Just accept it. It is the only way.

He was fucking done with accepting things.

For some time – seconds or minutes, he could hardly tell – it felt like his mind had almost floated from his body, leaving him with little perception of reality, outside of what the subconscious part of his self was trying get through to him. He was brought back abruptly, when Gryff’s hand slipped down to the pommel of his sword – at first feeling it, like he struggled to recognize the object, but a second later clenching the hilt tightly. His breath slowed down again, blood pounding as he unsheathed the blade, feeling the hard handle, the heaviness, those sensations that were bringing him back together. Steel was bleak & covered in blood & it’s sight made whatever bits of strength he had left concentrate in his arm, so that he almost felt like he could manage one last blow.

Perhaps it was still not too late.

Castle Black’s courtyard was big, white enough for his eye to start hurting & almost completely empty on the day of their arrival. Several men minded their own business here & there, polishing swords or carrying something, & none seemed particularly interested in showing the three guests around. Darrin – a soldier as tall as an oak, as thick as one, & with an intelligence of the said oak, from Gryff’ point of view – remained standing by his side like he was ready to grab him by the scruff if the Whitehill decided to run off; meanwhile, his second supervisor went on, likely to search for someone, who’d finally take Gryff off their hands for good.

Taking a chance to look around, he observed his soon-to-be home with the same sour expression, that hasn’t left his features ever since the departure from Highpoint. The place certainly looked more presentable than Ironrath ever had, at least under his rule, but at the same time gave an impression of being somewhat desolate. Gryff had, of course, heard, that the Watch had seen better days, but was not sure of the extent. It was still early in the morning, after all, and perhaps the courtyard would become more crowded in daytime. Those who were up already barely paid them attention. Here, behind the walls, wind was not as severe – Gryff had grown used to the cold through the last few days either way. It was likely he’d get used to whatever this new life had to offer the same way, albeit without any enthusiasm on his part.

“I’m goin’ to handle him, don’t worry.” The voice came from some watcher, walking in their direction alongside Arvin, the second Whitehill soldier. “Ser Raffard’s supposed to be handling the recruits, but gods know where the bastard is now. Forgive the inconvenience – things have been, well, disrupted here after all that happened…”

Gryff paid no mind to the explanations the stranger was giving – something about the former Lord Commander, the bloody Snow, who apparently couldn’t be found here any longer. Instead he observed the man himself, with the same sulky grimace. Watcher did not stand out in any way, clothed in dark, thickly built, bearded; only a small, but sincere half-smile distinguished him from the rest of the lot here.

Arvin was exhausted & annoyed, same as he had been throughout their whole journey. He got up at dawn that day, eager to finally rid himself of the burden his lord’s brother was, & now was barely suppressing the urge to yawn widely. Watcher’s words seemed to escape his attention, but he would not interrupt, likely afraid that the stranger would refuse to handle the newcomer & they’d get stuck here, looking for someone else. He clearly was more eager to turn back & have a longer stop at the Mole’s town than they did on their way here, celebrating the parting with his troublesome ward.

“Aye, and he” the soldier nodded towards Gryff, earning himself a scowl in response “is not going to make things any easier for you here. You sound like a sensible man, so I’m warning you – keep a closer eye on this one. I will not be surprised if his head rolls for desertion within the next month. He’s tried to escape several times on our way here – and he’s going to fight back when caught.” He concluded mercilessly, paying no mind to Gryff, who’s been shooting him dirty glares the whole time he spoke.

“You really need not worry.” Man’s half-smile did not falter & he looked at Gryff with an expression, that was almost encouraging. “We handle far worse here all the time, you know. Besides, you can never know a man from other’s words of him.”  Last words were directed at Gryff rather than anyone else, it seemed.

“I’ve got trouble imagining what could be worse than this.” Despite the sourness, it was possible to tell, that Arvin was being ironic, merely a tad. “By the way” he hastily reached in his pocket, getting out a small envelop which he offered to the crow. “Here are some… Clarifications from our lord, as well as, I assume, advice on how to handle him.” Shit, it flashed in Gryff’s head, would’ve been nice if someone ever gave him a clarification letter on how to handle three bastards, whose purpose in life was making him miserable. “I would recommend you listen to whatever it says. Lord Torrhen had always been one of the few, who could truly rein this man in. He knows what he is talking about.”

“You think lowly of me, ser.” With a slight roll of his eyes, black brother accepted the piece of correspondence carelessly. “I’ve always managed to keep my men under control without a written guidance, believe it or not.” He casually pocketed the letter, yet the moment the Whitehill soldier turned his gaze away from him, he winked at Gryff, suddenly & swiftly, causing the fourthborn’s eye to widen in confusion.

Arvin simply shrugged it off. Muttering some words of gratitude & farewell, he hurried back towards where their cart & horses were left without sparing Gryff a look. The latter heard Darrin utter some goodbyes, but didn’t as much as turn to look at the man. His assessing stare was kept firmly at the watcher. The Whitehill wondered what the other has been told about him during the part of their short encounter with Arvin, that he did not hear, but he sure as hell was not going to ask, or in any way make the man feel like he cared what he thought of him.

“So, Gryff Whitehill,” The watcher finally greeted him directly, reaching to shake his hand. “It’s Astor Greyson, and although you hardly feel the same way, it is good to meet you.”

He simply stared at the hand offered uncertainly. There was no reason not to greet Astor properly, not really, & it would not change a thing – yet Gryff just felt stubborn, stubborn & spiteful, as usual. He did not need any of this shit, did not need anyone pretending like something good or even normal was happening. This man could smirk & be friendly all he liked – Gryff did not care, not in the slightest. They could both be watchers, equals now, but that was just pretense. He would not be his, or anyone’s brother here – just a prisoner, someone to keep an eye out for & keep in line.

His arms remained locked across his chest & he kept silent, gloomily looking the other right in the eyes.

Astor waited a few seconds before taking the hand away. Half-smile did not go anywhere, on the opposite – it looked a little like he has been expecting this to happen.

“You’re lucky not to have to deal with Raffard right from the first moment here.” Greyson went on like nothing has happened. “You’ll still meet him rather soon though – you’re not too late for his sword training with the rest of the newcomers. You’ll meet up with the rest of them there, perhaps get to know some a bit. Seems like I’ll have to show you around today, huh?” Turning around, Astor motioned his hand, gesturing for Gryff to follow. “Let’s find someplace to drop whatever things you have, get you properly equipped and then we’ll have to get back here. Our new master-at-arms is not the type to excuse you for being late – even if this is your first day.”

He’d never been a fan of that bloody bunch of portraits, adorning the Upper Halls. His own one frankly sucked, from Gryff’s point of view – he had a dumb smile in it. There was no pleasure in witnessing the faces of his gone brothers more often than needed either, and, if the tapestry was not fucking enough, there were two more images of that woman. He had outlasted all three of them at Highpoint, but they still weren’t gone for good, as long as their memory, held in these pictures, lingered like a bad smell.

Well, it looked like, in the end, it was Torrhen who had truly outlasted all of them.

He had almost passed the corridor without taking another look, heading directly to his former chambers, but, out of the corner of his eye, spotted something unusual on the wall. Observing more closely made Gryff smirk sarcastically against his own will – my, it seemed like brother dearest had begun the process of getting rid of him long ago. He should’ve expected that – remaining holed up at the shitpile of Forresters’ stronghold could only work for so long. If only he had enough brains to have at least tried to do something about it earlier- fuck, there was no point in thinking about that now.

Gritting his teeth, he measured the damage done to the picture. Just because he himself hated the thing did not mean that arsehole had any right to touch it. Making it was a pain in the ass, Gryff recalled – he’d avoid posing by any means available, until both the artist & his father got fed up with it, and the former was told to simply draw him from memory. Perhaps that’s why his face ended up looking so unnatural, with an expression Gryff never actually wore in real life.

In a swift, jerky motion he tore the painting from where it was hanging. It gave an impression of an animal’s head on a hunter’s wall to him; a winner’s trophy. It was likely the way Torrhen viewed it as well, hence why he just tore it up instead of getting rid of it for good. It was all for the best, Gryff told himself, getting back on the way to his room & observing the thing in his hands with little remorse. He would need something to start a fire any way, and he knew, that canvas & paints burned brightly.

He had a dumb smile in it anyway.

The room felt exactly like he expected it to – cold, dusty, filled with that weird frowsy smell, that all abandoned rooms had. He threw the frame into the long-empty fireplace & then got a sudden urge to sit down, which he did, lowering himself on the edge of his bed.

The effects of his handicap were most apparent in situations like this – when he had to approach something old in his new state. His chamber seemed smaller than before, & now he had to turn his head around to observe it fully. The bloody eye. Gryff used to believe he’s gotten used to it, but was still reminded now & again what a difference it actually made. He rubbed his forehead a little, trying to collect his thoughts, but the helpless anger rising in his chest wouldn’t let him concentrate. The Whitehill got up, starting to pace back & forth in annoyance. He was supposed to be doing something, collecting things, saying goodbyes, some shit like that – but every inch of his being refused to comply. The concept of this being his last visit to the place, that used to be his haven, refuge, that he guarded from them by any means, was as unreal as… As unreal as having his whole line of vision split in two. They couldn’t be compared, he’d exchange the room for an eye, obviously – but the feelings were still eerily similar.

There wasn’t much left here after his departure to war – Gryff had never been the one to hoard many possessions, not with his brothers constantly trying to get to him by breaking or stealing what was his. Whatever item of importance he could not take with himself had been locked in a small chest by his nightstand. The key – hell if he remembered where the key was, but he had probably left it among the rest of his belongings, at Ironrath. After a short consideration, he unsheathed his sword & tried to force it under the chest’s top.

A few minutes later, the lock was broken & Gryff observed what was inside sarcastically. A thin bunch of letters, tied together with a piece of rope were probably the most important ones – he had a habit of burning most of his correspondence right after reading it, to prevent the bastards from getting their hands on it. Those would not take up much space. A wooden toy sword, an old thing he hadn’t tossed away by some earthly reason – perhaps it was given by father? After a moment of hesitation, it joined the portrait in the fireplace – better than having Torrhen’s servants discard of it when they’d start cleaning up the place. There was a small dagger he attached to his belt – his own had been lost during the cliff fall; minor items of clothing, an old book, some things, that he couldn’t even remember what purpose they were supposed to serve – most of it went to the fireplace. He wished there was some way to burn every fucking thing remaining here – the set of heavier armor, whatever clothes have been left in the wardrobe, that there was no point in taking – those were not black. Gryff could only destroy some of it, but it still gave him an odd sense of satisfaction. The least personal this place felt, the easier it would be to leave it behind.

He started the fire, then sat down on the fur in front of it & simply watched the flames for a little while, trying to concentrate on something other than the twinge of pain in his chest, that watching some of these things burn caused. Only now had he realized how cold he’s been this whole time – he got used to it, but when the short-lived warmth from the fireplace reached his frame, the contrast made shivers run down his spine.

Gryff couldn’t bring himself to think about anything particular, could not figure out what he felt. The prevailing sensation, now that he wasn’t moving, became low ringing in his ears & dizziness. Pain in the bruises & cuts, that he almost forgot about, was returning – not sharp, like it used to be, but still perceptible. He’d have to visit the maester, the Whitehill had to admit much to his own displeasure. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to even get in saddle if he didn’t at least wash the blood off. It’s smell & the feeling of it drying on his face was becoming sickening on its own.

Just a few minutes. He’d get going, as soon as he’d get warm, he was promising himself, even though every last cell in his body begged for rest. As an addition to the pain, sitting down made him realize just how tired he was – enough, that he felt a wish to lie down in front of the hearth & sleep for a day. Aside from being unconscious for some time, he had not slept since before yesterday, he was now realizing. Everything after that – the battle, the fall, the ride, the talk – was mixing into a blur in his head, becoming difficult to tell from one another.

Seriously, what harm would… say, just half an hour, do? Or a whole hour, for that matter… Being in his old room was likely affecting him this way. He’d usually crawl back here to bolt the door & lick his wounds, try to feel safe for a little while, give his nerves some rest. Sometimes he’d end up being holed up here for days, when the mere thought of going out made him break out in cold sweat & gave him an urge to vomit. He’d still have to sneak outside every once in a while, to fetch some food from the kitchens – and, if he was unlucky, end up getting caught by Karl, or Torrhen, or both.

Torrhen. The name was like pinching yourself on the arm to stay focused. He had to remain alert, for as long as he wasn’t out of the bastard’s reach – the humiliation of having the man just grab him by the scruff & frog-march him out of Highpoint’s gates wasn’t something Gryff would be able to handle at the moment. The thought floated in his skull, that became heavier by the minute, as if something hot & thick, like melted iron, was being poured into it. His neck grew achy from having to hold it high & was giving in, until his chin would hit the chest & cause him to jerk, half-awake, but only for a second.

Vision blurred, his only eye narrowing further & further, until the only thing he could even make out were the orange flames – and even those, just as another blurred, moving spot. Bloody fire, he was realizing it now – should never have started it in the first place… The warmth was too lulling, as well as the sound. Soft, rhythmic cracks, with practically intangible sough of flames poured over those. They were almost like some weird speech in an unknown tongue, with calming intonation, soothing melody to it. He could swear, he even recognized bits from that tone – like he’s heard those before, just in another manner. Instead of being yelled, over howling wind & clashing, someone whispered them to him kindly.

Room floated before his eye one last time, before it slid shut. Last thing Gryff perceived before slipping into oblivion was a sensation of unseen eyes locked on him, of another’s presence somewhere by his side – but those got lost the moment he drifted off to sleep.

… Awakening was even faster than falling asleep – he just felt himself sliding to the side, on the floor, and that jolted him back to consciousness. Blinking rapidly, first thing Gryff looked at the fireplace – coals were still red & small tongues of fire would flicker here & there. That meant he had not been out for long – but he would be, if he allowed himself to repeat that mistake.

Memory of the sensation he got before dozing off nagged him slightly from the inside, but he pushed it away, getting back on his feet, helping himself by grabbing the edge of a headboard. He was unsteady still, but the quick sleep seemed to have given him a bit of short-lived strength. It wouldn’t last, likely, so he had to catch the moment & finish some business – probably the most important thing left for him to do here.

He had not been given a typical crow’s cloak yet – just a set of black armor, that, in all honesty, was better than the one he arrived here wearing. The latter has not aged well at all & has not been repaired or even cleaned much since the siege. The new one was also warmer, far more fitting for the harshness of weather this far north – it wasn’t all that bad, Gryff had to begrudgingly admit.

He & the rest of the recruits – about a dozen & a half of them in total, from what it looked like – flocked in the courtyard, waiting for the master-at-arms to signal the beginning of the training. Man in question – ser Raffard, from what Gryff recalled – did not seem to be in any rush, comfortably seated on a barrel near the rack, that held training swords & polishing his own, barely paying a small crowd in front of him any mind. He looked like a real crow – black-haired, dark-eyed & sharp-featured, he fitted the environment around himself perfectly.

Only when small talk among the soon-to-be crows died down to almost complete silence, the man looked up at them & got up from his place.

“Those of you, who have never trained here before – two steps forward.” The Whitehill made another mental note of the other’s voice – a voice & tone of a man, used to giving orders. “The rest of you, two steps behind.” Aside from Gryff, four men came forward – some balding elder, who stood leaning on a long wooden staff, tall & broad-shouldered lad with a dreadfully serious expression & a face of a lowborn, boy that looked like he wasn’t above thirteen, & a barrel-shaped individual, who stared in front of himself phlegmatically. Watchman observed his working material with an unreadable expression, but Gryff highly doubted, that what he saw left him satisfied.

“The Watch lacks men desperately, so even those of you, who’ll end up as builders & stewards” last words were spoken with some special scorn “are going to have to learn which end of the sword to hold & how to fire a bow. That means you will all be spending time with me, no matter how hopeless your case is. There are, however, some exceptions even to that rule.” Raffard’s gaze stopped on the old man. “Did whoever send you here lack any kind of mercy? All would be better off if he just snapped your neck for whatever horrendous crime you’ve committed. If you can’t even walk on your own, what makes you think you’ll be anything but a burden with a sword?”

“This thing” the elder lifted his staff slightly, “is more of a sentiment to me, than a walking aid.” Gryff cocked an eyebrow, feeling a slight twitch of curiosity – the other recruit, with his scrawny frame & dirty greying long hair on the sides of his head, could look like a lowborn, but certainly did not speak like one. “Put me to a test, my lord,” old man did not seem offended, quite the opposite – his lips tucked into a disarmingly friendly smile. “Perhaps I will not disappoint you.”

“We’ll see about that. Drop your item of sentiment & grab yourself a sword then.” Master-at-arms motioned towards the rack.

“If I could be so bold” there was something smarmy, intentionally non-threatening in the old man’s voice that made Gryff shift uncomfortably for some reason. “I’d rather stick to my own weapon, my lord.” Gryff recalled being told in the passing by someone, that staffs were used as weapons by some of the mountain clansmen – perhaps that was where the stranger originated from. “It does not look like much, but there are many uses to it.”

“I suppose, you could be so bold.” Ser Raffard’s cold, emotionless stare gave out nothing. “I suppose, I could be bold enough to break your stick against my knee & send you to scrub chamberpots till the rest of your time here, if you don’t stop wasting my time & start following orders.” The message clearly got through – shaking his head a little, with the same smile, recruit lowered the staff on the ground carefully & went to fetch himself a blade.

“A real charmer, is he not?” Gryff turned to the sound of a voice, discovering, that it was one of the other newcomers speaking. He didn’t seem to address anyone in particular, but seeing that Gryff has reacted to his words, graced him with an amused smile.

“I’m talking about Raffard.” Recruit continued in a low voice. “If you think he’s being an arsehole now, you should’ve heard the stories they tell about him here. They also say the man who dealt with newcomers before was even worse – till he went to hunt down some deserters & perished north of the Wall… Think we’ll get just as lucky with this one?” He chuckled & winked to Gryff, before turning his attention back to the fighters.

Unsure of what the other meant to accomplish by telling him this, the Whitehill just shrugged & turned back to look in the same direction. Old man was holding his own decently enough, to his surprise. His movements could be defter & he clearly couldn’t strike as hard as a younger man would, but by moving constantly he dodged & parried most of the hits, even though he made no attempt to go on the offensive himself. This went on for a couple of minutes, before the elder was careless enough to leave himself open & his opponent’s sword struck right in his kneecap, causing him to drop on the other one with a gasp. Raffard used the moment to aim for the wrist of his sword hand, knocking the blade out of it.

“At least you wouldn’t be dead in the first minute of battle – for someone like you, that’s encouraging.” After letting his opponent have a breath, master-at-arms grabbed his hand & helped the man back up to his feet. “We’ll see what can be done about you. Perhaps, with some training, you will actually do the Realm a service by killing a wildling.” The last words almost made Gryff laugh. Apparently, even the crows still believed it were wildlings that they all needed to fear – while he, a bloody newcomer, already knew better than that.

The trial carried on, the young boy & the sulky lowborn demonstrating their skill one after another. Kid fought fiercely, uttering almost animalistic growls as he’d jump back up on his feet over & over after being knocked down & charged forward. The lowborn, whose name turned out to be Ayden, fared even worse, making it clear to everyone, that he’s hardly had any sword practice before – at least not with a knight as his opponent. Ser Raffard’s expression hardly changed once throughout the short fights, but it seemed like he wasn’t too aggravated & his mocking remarks sounded rather passionless.

“You’re a lordling, is that right?” He inquired as Gryff was picking himself a blade, trying not to linger by the rack any longer than needed. Standing here, in the spotlight, grated on his nerves & he could not wait to get this over with. Last time he had used a sword seemed like it was months ago – but the memory of how it ended stuck with him for good.

He jerked a shoulder & nodded. “And a fourth son, that is.” His opponent added in passing. “Not that I’m expecting excellence from someone, who’s disposable enough to be sent here, but a lord’s son should’ve at least received better training than this lot.” As Gryff turned to face him, flash of irritation in his eye, the man had his own sword at the ready. “Come at me.”

The fuck was he getting at, the Whitehill wondered idly, circling the patch of ground between him & the man. With the rest of recruits, he always took initiative in his own hands, as opposed to now – it seemed like he was expecting Gryff to take charge. His train of thought was interrupted as the watcher swung his blade at him, swiftly changing the direction of the hit at the last moment & barging through his hastily established block. Sword was knocked from his hand & Raffard simply sent him to the ground with a heavy thrust of his shoulder into Gryff’s chest.

For a few seconds, he just stared back at him, stunned. This has been swifter than any of the fights he has just witnessed – even though in the back of his mind Gryff knew, that he’d be subdued either way. All that needed to be proven about him as a fighter has been proven before. He could hear a couple short laughs from the crowd & a sympathetic sigh, that, as he correctly guessed, came from the guy who’s been talking to him before. Getting back on his feet, Gryff simply shut those out of his mind. He did not care about what they would have to say, he really fucking didn’t-

“Sleeping with your eyes open, Whitehill? Or, should I say, your eye.” Raffard looked almost bored by this point. “Did you not hear what I told you? The part about attacking me.”

“I was thinking.” At last, he was forced to speak, picking his blade up from the dirt.

“I hope me chopping your sword hand off and slitting your throat did not interrupt the thought process, your lordship.” The man already took another stance. “Your blind side is the most vulnerable, keep that in mind. And get your head out of the clouds, recruit. I can accept it when someone simply sucks, but not when he isn’t fucking trying.” With the same idleness in his gaze, Gryff followed another’s movements, at this point not even bothered by what would happen next. There was that slimy feeling inside of him, that made even trying seem completely worthless. Strike, their blades clashed, again, and the next second his traced an arc in the air & landed back on the ground, while his opponent’s was directed right at Gryff’s throat.

It took some effort to force himself to look the man in the eyes – and their coldness made him flinch. Raffard had been distant & snarky throughout the whole training session, but this was different – and almost frightening. That piercing gaze, that felt like it was directed into his very soul, reminded Gryff too much of another pair of eyes – one, that he believed he would never have to see again.

Unable to bear it, he bit in his lip & looked away.

“What is the matter, Whitehill?” Raffard’s voice was not angry, or irritated – it was plainly empty.

“What?!” Gryff attempted to bite back with what little anger he felt. “If I suck, just bloody say so. You didn’t ask the rest of them what was wro-”

“You are not the rest of them. You are not a lowborn, who’s never held a weapon deadlier than a meat axe.” The watcher would not take the sword away from his neck. “I’ve been told about you, Whitehill, about who you were and what you got sent here for. So don’t expect me to buy it, that you’ve fought under Roose Bolton and then led your own men, but now somehow can’t parry the simplest strike.”

Who the hell told him, flashed through Gryff’s mind – was it that Astor Greyson son of a whore?! And the fucker even seemed like a decent man to him at the beginning… Silently fuming & with no idea of how to respond, he stood, eye lowered to the ground, flashing angry looks to the watcher each few seconds.

Realizing, that he would not get another word from him, Raffard finally lowered his blade.

“I don’t know what the deal is with you, Whitehill,” he spoke quietly, calmly & distinctly. “Whether you pretend to be worse than you are because you want to be assigned a safer position, don’t deem me worthy of your effort… I honestly don’t care. What I know, is that under me you will work to your fullest potential willingly – or be forced to, if that’s what I have to do. Pick you sword, recruit.” He stepped back, moving his body into a steady fighting stance. “This is just the beginning.”

It was never warm this far down, under Highpoint. Not a candle or torch in your arm, no amount of layers of clothing you'd wrap yourself in would make significant difference. The moment you descended down the steep stony stairs & take a breath of air, still & cold, it would settle at the bottom of your lungs & remain there until you had a chance to re-emerge & sit by a fireplace, or have rare northern sun touch your skin.  He had spent quite some time in this place back in his day, in the cellars, crypts & half-abandoned & ruined tunnels, and not always willingly. From his brothers' perspective, shoving him down the stairs & then locking the door behind him, so that he would remain in complete darkness, was a fun thing to do. The realization, that barging through the door was not in his power came to him quickly — shortly after realizing, that begging them to let him out was in vain just as well (it was early, very early when he realized, that begging them to leave him be would always be in vain, & would not even try – until a particularly harsh beating would force a plea out of him).  At first, he'd just sit with his back pressed to the door, staring in the darkness of the corridor in front of him, too terrified to blink or make a sound — even his short breaths seemed to echo against the cold walls in a hollow sound, that made his blood curl. It always felt like something— someone was lurking there, watching him, ready to strike if he'd fail to see the attack coming. Soon enough, the obscure figures, born in his imagination, formed into an only one, that felt so real, Gryff could swear he could make out it’s shape in the darkness sometimes. A pale female silhouette, whose face he could not make out, that moved slowly & deliberately, almost clumsily — due to having to support her grotesquely protruding middle with a pair of thin hands... Hands, that she, undoubtedly, wanted to grasp his neck with till he wouldn't be able to breathe — if she ever managed to catch him.  Blackness where the light of his candle did not reach still did not fail to fill him with unease, but now Gryff merely clenched his teeth & walked faster towards the crypt — something, that, in his childhood, took many hours of bracing himself to accomplish. Step by step, he'd move further down the corridor that it now took him half a minute to pass. His past self then journeyed further — in the cellars, in the old tunnels, where every noise made his chest clench painfully from terror, as he forced himself to continue walking no matter. That day though, he needed not go further — his destination has been reached.  It was stunning that he was only doing this now — visiting his father's last resting place for both the first & the last time. He did not have the courage to come following the siege, Gryff could at least admit that when nobody could hear. Just one more reason for self-loathing. Even now, he was hesitant to approach the tomb — stupid childish memories affecting him far too much. That's where the tapestry lady was laid, of course they'd make sure her & his father would be by each one's side in afterlife. It was her domain, her lair. He was long past believing any actual harm could harm from her, anywhere aside from his nightmares, but it didn't make visiting the place feel any better. He could not fight off the feeling of being watched from behind. This place never became any better to him — he just learned how to cope with being here when it was unavoidable.  The candle was placed carefully on the floor, in a way that'd make it light up the cell in the crypt's wall where he made out the silhouette of the tomb. Gryff meanwhile lowered himself to sit on the floor, facing it — the place wasn't really meant for sitting, but standing still for longer than a minute made him dizzy. Complete silence fell, making him hear his own blood pounding distinctly. It was fitting the situation, the cold, the quiet, the peace — except for how horribly wrong it was for Ludd Whitehill, a man, who was anything but those things, to end up this way, in his son's eyes. If he had not witnessed the disemboweled body with his own eye, he would hardly believe his father was buried a few steps from him. Nothing about it felt right. Nothing here reminded Gryff of him in any way.  He forced his mouth open, thinking of something, anything to say — and closed it after a moment or two. It was too damn quiet here — the sound of his hoarse, weak voice would not belong. Gryff himself felt out of place, despite trying to force the thought out of his head — This is your right, you idiot. Your duty. Nobody cares what bloody Torrhen has to say. He does not matter. Your father is the only one that does, so speak, while you still have a chance, or— "I..." He forced through the lump in his throat, and just as expected, it felt horribly unnatural and wrong. Deadly quietness made it feel like his voice could be heard everywhere, even if Gryff knew, that stony walls wouldn't let the sound go further. The knowledge did not help. Feeling like he was being listened to from the dark made talking almost an impossibility.  "I'm b-back." After clearing his throat, the Whitehill lowered his voice to almost whispering, and that was better, just a bit. "From Ironrath. It was— I— " He already had nothing to say. Nothing to report, but his failure. Facing Torrhen, he could pretend not to care, to make indifference into his armor, but now sickening shame washed over him like hot waves. Ludd wasn't even there anymore, not really, yet he understood perfectly what he would have to say. How he would look at him. The mere thought made him wish he had broken his damn neck in the fall, like the horse did.  "I'm sorry." And that was true. The only reason to hold onto the forsaken keep — aside from having nowhere else in the whole world to go — was honoring his father's wish. Spiting the people, that killed him. At least he could hope, that all of them were already dead — slaughtered by their own army turned uncontrollable. This way there would be at least some justice left in this world. Just enough to believe it even still existed.  "There was nothing I could do." A stupid, weak, pathetic lie. He sort of leaned forward, hands clenching his arms just above the elbows, desperate to keep warm. The truth was that he ran — ran when the realization hit him, that he was a step from getting killed to protect a place he loathed & would rather see burned to the ground. Getting killed & not having a single soul to mourn him, or even care enough to bury what would remain of him. Now, you are alive — see how much better that feels?.. Gryff wasn't sure whether those words, ringing in his ears, were his, or if his father had found some way to get them through to him from wherever he was now.

The one thing lord Whitehill would never stand for was weakness.  Part of Gryff wanted to believe father would've understood — like he did when his last son was dragged before him, covered in blood from his mutilated eye & barely standing, so Grag had to literally hold him up. Whatever words Ludd had prepared for him seemed to escape him at the sight of Gryff in that state. He barely even recalled what he was saying, overcome with nauseating pain & dizziness — furiously growling something about fetching a bloody maester right fucking now. The next time he had a chance to approach father, the latter did not speak a word of what had happened — his first gesture was offering him the eyepatch Gryff would wear for the next months, all without saying a word. It was only then, when the disgusting, lousy feeling of weakness he's been carrying inside ever since getting maimed by Rodrik, suddenly eased up.  But now Ludd wasn't there to ease his worry the same way anymore. All Gryff had were his own thoughts, and those were merciless. It was different now. Rodrik had only managed to defeat him by deceit, with the help of his whore & her archers. This time, he had lost in a fair fight. This was it for him — as a lord, as a warrior, as a man. What Torrhen's soldiers would escort to the Wall was nothing but a sack of meat & bones. Was Ludd still alive, even he wouldn't be able to argue or defend him like he always did. Just one more way in which he had failed him. He had always cared more for him than for Torrhen, Gryff recalled, his throat clenching treacherously, always trusted him more — and he had repaid him by submitting to the thirdborn's rule, by accepting his power, instead of keeping fighting for what his father stood for.  As if he couldn't get any more pathetic.

“You know I don’t’ want to.” Gryff himself was shocked by how whiny that sounded. He couldn’t just break down here, he had to be a man for one last time, to say farewell with at least a shred of dignity – and instead he spoke like a hurt child, a feeling from many years ago, as real as ever. “You know he is forcing me to, that I would never- never leave if I could. I wouldn’t, I just- I just can’t…” His voice trembled, eyes burned, but he knew, that tears would not fall – it’s been so long since he cried, he barely even remembered how that was supposed to be done anymore.

“You would never send me away. Right?..” What kind of bloody response was he expecting? “A Whitehill is still a Whitehill. It doesn’t matter what his-s, his orders are – he can’t… He fucking can’t…” The shaking was getting out of his control, it was like a hand tightened around his throat, making it hard to breathe. “A Whitehill’s a Whitehill. He can’t change it. He is nothing. You always knew he was fucking nothing – only you, and nobody else.” Or did it just seem to him? No, no, the thought was too fucking bad to even contemplate. His father bloody hated Torrhen, and that was the only comfort Gryff has had for many days. He sent him away to rot at the Bastion. He didn’t even trust him enough to meet without the presence of his guards. He hit him. He fucking punished him for the shit he was doing, the only one who ever did, Torrhen still had a scar on his face from those beatings, because Ludd saw through him, saw what a piece of scum he was, because he fucking hated him, like that coward deserved-

“I fucked up.” Gryff’s voice evened. “I… fucked up so badly, you couldn’t even imagine.” It was so… so pathetic of him, to sit by the tomb of the only person who ever believed he was worth something, & whine about his sorrows, even though he knew well enough nobody listened. “I don’t know how I can ever make it any better.” Some part of him was glad his father wasn’t there to hear this anymore – he couldn’t bear the thought of Ludd starting to despise him for it. Another, bigger part, simply cursed the day lord Whitehill had been killed, knowing fully well it was supposed to be him instead. It was always supposed to be him going down to defend him – doing something worthy with his life & spitting in Torrhen’s face by depriving him of a chance to be lord. Now all went wrong, his father dead, him, regrettably, not, and Torrhen winning the day.

This would never have happened if only he fulfilled his duty.

He didn’t know what to say anymore, or what to do. When he was heading here, he had some good, right things in mind, but now half of those were forgotten & half seemed too stupid to voice. A simple “I love you” – something he never had it in himself to say when Ludd was alive, now seemed even more dumb & embarrassing. The need to get going pressed down on him, but he was scared of doing that at the same time. This was his last chance, but Gryff couldn’t even force himself to speak. Deep inside, this just added as one more reason to hate Torrhen, for turning this moment for him into such a mess. Of course though, this was still his failure, first & foremost – failing his parent in life & death all the same.

He couldn’t handle this any longer.

Swiftly & out of nowhere, he stood up, causing his head to spin. His eye burned like a hot coal, but remained dry as ever, and Gryff looked around, shaky movements akin to those of a hunted down animal. Out, get out of this place. You had your chance. It was almost like he somehow became a child again, frightened by the darkness. Black corners & cells of the crypt hid something sinister. It wanted him out. This place did not want to tolerate him any longer. He was ready to run back, to leave the candle & just turn & run, until he’d see light again – but he could not take the gaze away from the stone late lord Whitehill rested under.

For one last time. Be strong. Be a man.

Shakily, Gryff reached with his hand until it rested on the tomb’s cold surface. The unknown behind his back set a tickling, panicky sensation in his stomach, but he would not take the hand away – not if the woman from the tapestry were to lay her thin, pale hand on his shoulder right in this moment. Touching it brought no peace, no warmth, no sense of connection or presence of his father’s spirit or whatever the hell was supposed to be here – but just knowing, that he spoke to someone, who maybe did not listen – but would’ve, if he was there, was enough. He searched his mind for something to say, something that he would’ve wished for somebody else to tell him if he was dead, or dying, and out of all possible things, one stood out for Gryff:

“I won’t forget you.” He forced the words to be confident, clear, not caring if someone was to hear them or not. He was saying it, and he meant it, and if there was any way for a dead man to hear what the living had to tell him – he would hear Gryff now. “I’ll never, never fucking forget you… And I won’t let anybody else forget.”

When he walked back, through the corridor & up the stairs, the feeling of being watched never let go for a second, but he walked slowly still, with every deliberately long stop giving the thing in the darkness another chance to get him, if so it pleased. Nothing happened, of course, not a weird sound, or movement, or a mysterious blast of wind to blow his candle out – he was no fucking child anymore, and he should’ve known better. What he felt down in the crypt was nothing but a moment of weakness, foolery of his sickly brain. Real monsters had no need to hide, in cellars, under beds, in the woods, or wherever – they had all the needed power to do what they pleased in broad daylight & stand by their deeds proudly, with their heads held high.

Only at the last stair did he finally look back. The candle had burned out, leaving him with a mere thread of grey smoke, but his eye had gotten used to the lack of light by this point. If Gryff closed it, he would be able to imagine the silhouette of the tapestry’s lady, like the little boy used to do – but not the man. He looked in the dark with his own impaired gaze, and saw nothing – just as he was supposed to. He’d meet her again – in feverish dreams, in nightmares, or when he simply wouldn’t be able to keep his eye open any longer & would clutch it shut in fear – but never in reality. Never. For all that has happened, for all that was eating away at him from the inside, there was one thing he still had not been robbed off –

He still lived, still breathed, & walked, & spoke, and what mattered wasn’t that it brought him no joy anymore – it was that she didn’t. No matter what, he would live to see the light again, while she’d remain down here, in the dark, where she belonged.

As he shut the door behind him tightly, that thought, for the first time today, warmed up some tiny part of his soul.

[dragonandtiger]

Digimon 00 - Fragments - 26

Ken made his way up the small grassy hill, his steps swift as he carried Wormmon with him. Although it was night, the full moon granted plenty of light to guide him to the top of the hill. Once he reached his destination, he stopped to admire the dazzling view of the night sky, an infinite field of black painted with countless glittering stars.With the forest keeping its distance around the base of the hill, he and his partner were granted a completely unfettered view of the cosmos.

It was enough to take Ken’s breath away.

“It’s so beautiful. I never got to see stars like this back home,” Ken murmured. “Are each of those stars a different Digital World?”

“That’d be amazing!” Wormmon chirped, eyes wide and shimmering with starlight. “There’s so many of them!”

“It’d also be exhausting,” Nyamon said as she approached the two from behind. “Narakumon has enough trouble with just this world.” She flashed the pair a grin. “It’s an illusion, made to resemble the night sky in your world. Behind it, you’ll find nothing but lines and lines of Digital Code.”

“Oh,” Ken said, sounding a bit disappointed before he perked up a moment later. “Well, it’s still very pretty, and it feels real!”

“Right,” Nyamon said, giggling. She paused before casting a knowing glance down the hill at her partner, where Keiko fidgeted about before tentatively moving to join them. “And that’s what counts.”

Keiko didn’t meet her partner’s pointed gaze, but moved up the hill anyway to join the group. As she drew closer, Nyamon smiled up at her before using her tail to nudge the Chosen of Darkness closer to Ken.

Ken glanced over to Keiko before he smiled, then looked back up at the stars. “Thank you for inviting us... I’m really glad you wanted to show us this!”

Keiko gave an awkward nod before she began to fidget. She glanced up at the sky, watching through her peripheral vision as Ken sat down on the soft grass and set Wormmon down beside him. She hesitated to sit as well, instead turning her gaze to her hands before rubbing them anxiously together,as if warming them.

After several long moments, the Chosen of Darkness glanced over to Ken as he stared enraptured at the night sky. Keiko hesitated before she braced herself. “Ken?”

“Yes?” Ken asked as he turned to look at Keiko, then stopped as he noticed the conflicted expression on her face. A moment later, he realized she dropped her typical nickname for him, which only magnified his worry. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” Keiko said quietly, too ashamed to look directly at Ken.

Ken blinked. “For what?”

Keiko forced herself to stop being a coward and looked Ken in the eye. “For going off on you earlier,” said, a little stronger than before. “The life I had before coming to the Digital World was… bad. It’s taken me years here with Narakumon and Tenraimon and everyone else to get over it.” She paused for a moment, her expression turning sour. “Or at least, I should be over it by now. I shouldn’t be still sensitive to it like that.”

Ken stared at Keiko for a long moment as the cool night wind delicately brushed against his cheek and made Keiko’s long black hair dance. “I-I’m sorry, I… I didn’t realize… I shouldn’t have mentioned your parents at all.”

Keiko sighed, trying to hide her frustration. Making Ken feel bad again was not what she wanted. “Don’t… Don’t apologize. Your parents are crap for neglecting you and treating you like Osamu’s leftovers, but they didn’t abuse you. You probably thought that my parents were, at worst, as bad as yours.”

One word was all it took to set off alarms in Ken’s head. “A-abuse!?” he repeated, voice practically shrill. “They abused you!?” The guilt intensified, as he realized his actions went beyond merely reminding her of unpleasantness and to outright reminding her of abuse. The sheer depths of his unintended insensitivity made his stomach churn.

With a nod, Keiko took a deep breath to steel her nerves. “That woman…” She stopped, her muscles tensing up as she forced herself to spit out a word covered in barbs. “My ‘mother’ was a demon.” A wretched acidic taste coated her tongue, but she forced herself not to falter. “She gave birth to me, so she felt that I owed her everything.”

Nyamon silently moved to her partner’s side, reaching up to take Keiko’s hand in hers with surprising tenderness despite the hard metal gauntlet that she wore.

Ken stared at Keiko before thought to his own parents, then grimaced. In a way, he saw shades of his own parents in that statement, though he didn’t dare make the connection between that entitlement and ‘abuse’ - especially when he had been raised to believe it was normal to think that way.

“My birth father… I have no idea what he was like,” Keiko said with no real emotion. When it came to the man she never met and only saw once, there was just an empty pit inside her, something she skirted around and refused to think about in detail to avoid further pain from loss. Ultimately, such a tactic left her feeling a dull sense of apathy and numbness. “That woman murdered him when he tried to take me away from her.”

Ken was stunned speechless, openly gaping at Keiko in pure horror.

Keiko tried to smile to ease the tension, but all that she could manage was a sickly crook at the corner of her mouth. “She lied to me that I even had a father. Or older siblings who lived with him in Tokyo. As far as I knew, there was just me, my ‘mother’ and her relatives. I lived out in a very small village in the rural countryside, one where anyone who comes from the outside are outsiders and everyone keeps secrets. The family I was born in, the Makuras, basically owned the entire town, and if they wanted to make someone disappear… like someone who cared enough to try to save me…”

The increasingly terrified expression on Ken’s face was enough to veer Keiko away from finishing that thought.

“I’ll spare you the nightmares of the details,” she murmured. “Basically… everything in my life was dictated by that woman, and if I disobeyed, she would…” She paused again, fumbling for words that would give a hint at the weight of her experience without traumatizing Ken. “There were… things in the basement. Nasty tools and rooms for… for punishment. They’re things that aren’t supposed to be in anyone’s house. Things that made people never want to fight back again, or to make them disappear…” She paused to let out a shuddering breath. “I still have nightmares of… nights I spent down there.”

Ken trembled slightly before he stood back up and moved closer to Keiko. Even as her words baffled and terrified him, the sight of her pain was enough to break through his stupor and cause him to want to comfort her, though he hesitated to offer a hug in case she didn’t want to be touched. “It’s… it’s okay now, though. You’re not there anymore, you’re… you’re here. You’re in the Digital World, with me and everyone else. S-so...” He trailed off, realizing how weak his words sounded, but he was at a loss for what else he could say. “I’m sorry…”

Keiko focused on Ken before she wrapped an arm around him and pulled her friend close. “Yeah. I’m safe here. I’ve been safe here for years. That’s why there’s no excuse for me getting so angry with you like I did. Just the idea of you feeling sorry for a woman like that…” She tried to keep the venom from her voice, but her mouth twisted with taste. “She always, always made everyone feel sorry for her… including me. Even after spending a night in the basement. Because it was my fault I had to be dragged down there. Because everyone agrees she deserves the sympathy because it’s so hard to raise me. Because she was my mother and she loved me.”

Just saying the words made Keiko feel like throwing up, but she held back the urge, realizing she was straying from the reason they were having this conversation. “I’m sorry.” She slid both arms around Ken this time and hugged him close. “You had no idea, so don’t blame yourself. Who expects to hear that their friend grew up with a literal murdering psychopath? That’s only supposed to exist in dramas, not real life.”

Ken’s eyes began to water as he hugged Keiko tightly. He was still at a loss for what to say, but he could at least express himself physically. “Keiko…”

“I’m sorry,” Keiko muttered as she gave Ken’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before rubbing his back in small circles. “Being friends with you is one of the best things to ever happen to me. I care about you. It wasn’t right for me to hurt you just because you were worried about me and anyone related to me. Of course you care - you’re Ken-chan! You’re the kindest, most compassionate person I know.”

Ken couldn’t respond with more than a sniffle as he squeezed Keiko tight, his small body quaking with emotion.

A soft sigh escaped Keiko at the sound of Ken’s tears, and she berated herself for making him feel bad. Again. Faking a smile, she tried to lighten the atmosphere with a perky attitude that wasn’t as convincing as she would’ve liked. “Hey, don’t worry about what happened to me back then. I’ll protect you and everyone else who’s good like you in the Digital World. I’m the Chosen of Darkness - I’m no one’s doll anymore-”

“Which is a crime that simply must be fixed,” came a voice that neither of the children recognized. “You would, after all, make such a lovely doll.”

The oily voice was all the warning either Keiko or Ken had to turn and see the white handkerchief that flew at them and exploded in size until it became more like a large blanket. Neither child could react in time, but, fortunately for them, the voice already set Nyamon on high alert, and the sudden movement set her off instantly. She lunged upwards and lashed out, her claws blazing blue flames that immediately incinerated and shredded the cloth before it could touch the human children.

Nyamon landed in front of her Chosen and Ken as bits of burning fabric fluttered down like snow, her expression fierce. “Show yourself!”

“How… unfortunate,” the voice said, slithering from somewhere in the darkness. “That would’ve been a rather ironic ending to this little performance, wouldn’t it?”

Anger pounded through Keiko’s veins instead of blood as she whirled about to find their unseen opponent, not just because of the attack but also the sense of violation that the Digimon had overheard something so private, so personal. She had spent too much time working herself up to a place where she could tell the story to one of her dearest friends. How dare this bastard slip in to hear something not meant for them. She placed herself between Ken and the source of the voice, who stepped back instinctively with wide eyes and scanned the sky as well.

“Show yourself,” she snarled, “so I’ll know who I’m going to kill.”

“But then,” the voice continued as if Keiko hadn’t spoken before Piemon suddenly appeared above the Chosen Children, sneering down at them. “Every veteran performer knows that not every act ends as it should. That is when the true test of an actor’s abilities begins.”

Nyamon glared up at Piemon, crouched in a battle-ready position. “Another of Millenniumon’s goons, I assume.”

Piemon smiled down at Nyamon, though his eyes were anything but friendly. “I am Piemon, of the Dark Masters - and your executioner.”

Keiko pulled out her Digivice from her pocket. “I’m not in the mood for this. Nyamon, take care of him.”

Nyamon nodded before she was engulfed with the light of evolution. She barely had time to transform into Nyxmon before Piemon drew his swords and flung them at her with deadly accuracy. She brought up her scythe to defect them, a loud clang issuing through the night with each strike.

Keiko wrapped her arm around Ken and held him against her as she took a defensive stance. “Stay close to me.”

“O-okay,” Ken said as he stared up at Piemon, with no small amount of fear.

“Don’t worry, Ken-chan!” Wormmon said as he took a defensive stance at Ken’s feet. Even though he knew that he was hopelessly outmatched against Piemon, that wasn’t about to stop him from defending his partner. “I won’t let him near you!”

Nyxmon lunged at Piemon, fanning her wings to take flight as she erased the distance between them. Piemon showed no sign of fear of the aggressive angel Digimon, meeting her charge head-on as he drew more swords and lunged to greet her.

Nyxmon grunted as her scythe met the Digimon’s swords, being halted from puncturing his digital flesh. In response, she drew her foot up and slammed it into Piemon’s groin, sending the harlequin Digimon flying backwards before he righted himself.

“H-hitting below the belt, are we?” Piemon asked as he wobbled slightly, but recovered quickly enough to block Nyxmon’s next attack as she lunged for him once again. “That’s foul play, my dear!”

“It’s a fight, not a sport!” Nyxmon retorted. “I won’t hold back and neither will you!”

Piemon smirked before he redirected Nyxmon’s attack with his swords to slip away from her powerful attack. Once free, he lunged forward, forcing her back and forcing her to bring up the scythe in defense, blocking his swords with the handle this time.

“Keiko! Ken!” Ryo’s voice called out as he rushed out of the woods and up the hill. The fighting could be heard from a considerable distance away, disturbing the tranquil silence of the night. It was more than loud enough to even reach the camp and send everyone running. “Are you okay!?”

“Lady Keiko, Ken-chan!” FlaWizarmon called as well, racing stride for stride alongside Ryo and Leomon, as Witchmon rode her broom. Only Neemon and Bokomon were absent, as the two non-combatants knew far better than to rush into probable battle - or at least, Bokomon did, and made sure Neemon stayed out of the way.

“Interrupting such an important moment!” Witchmon said with a cluck of her tongue. “No manners at all.”

“You bastard!” Leomon snarled out as he raced ahead of the Chosen of Miracles, his eyes focused on Piemon. “Ryo!”

“Right!” Ryo shouted as he whipped out his Digivice.

Piemon glanced down just in time to see Leomon evolve to Panjamon, then grimaced. His eyes darted to Keiko and Ken, then back down to Ryo as the brown haired boy reached his friends. “It seems the curtains are falling on this act much faster than anticipated…”

“Allow me to cut them down that much faster!” Nyxmon said as she lunged at Piemon again.

Piemon swerved out of the way, twirling around Nyxmon as she struggled to stop her charge and whip about to follow him. He didn’t give her much chance for that, planting his foot on her chest and using her as a springboard to send himself flying away.

“Stay behind me,” Keiko said as she nudged Ryo with a little more force than necessary to stand by Ken.

“Right,” Ryo said as he placed his hands on Ken’s shoulders from behind. With the three of them, they created a makeshift barrier around the youngest and most vulnerable of them.

With so much attention on his safety, Ken cast his gaze from Keiko to Ryo and couldn’t help but cringe at the reminder that he was the weakest Chosen Child of them all.

Blade and claw clashed as Panjamon barely repelled Piemon’s attack, skidding back several feet and leaving deep grooves in the earth. The difference in power between them was too great, and it was only through the grace of Nyxmon’s attack that he was spared from the swords drawing blood.

Piemon narrowly dodged Nyxmon’s latest attack even with his incredible speed, flipping upwards and back to kick the fallen angel in the back of the head to force her and her deadly scythe towards Panjamon. Nyxmon barely managed to stop in time before her blade reached her friend, but the distraction cost her.

In the precious seconds Piemon gained, he charged the children. He smirked as his eyes dancing with glee as he met the hateful gaze of Keiko as a deadly aura of darkness overtook her. However, though the child was powerful, he was far more agile and flipped above and behind the small group of children and his true target. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out a small black barbed sphere before he threw it at Ryo with expert precision and speed.

“Ryo!”

Everything happened at once. Ryo barely had time to turn his head, only for Ken’s cry to bring his gaze back to the front as two small hands shoved him with unexpected force, sending him to the ground. Keiko rounded about, but didn’t see the attack in time, only Ken placing his hands on her chest for a push that never came. From the ground, Ryo had a perfect view of the barbed sphere as it slammed into the back of Ken’s neck, while Keiko witnessed Ken’s eyes widen in shock and pain. Both could only helplessly watch the blood splatter as they screamed Ken’s name.

Keiko grabbed Ken, babbling his name and hysterical denials as she snatched him up in her arms as he fell limp and unresponsive. “No no no nonono no! Ken!”

“Ken!” Ryo shouted, nearly in hysterics as he sat up while Keiko sunk to her knees. “Oh my God, Ken!”

“Ken-chan!” Wormmon wailed, tears in his eyes as he pawed futilly at Ken’s leg.

FlaWizarmon raced over as Keiko cradled Ken in her lap, ripping off part of his clothes to try and stop the bleeding. “D-damn it… Ken-chan, hold on!”

“Shit,” Witchmon hissed as she cast a glowing blue summoning spell circle before her. It was far more difficult than her teleportation spell, especially due to lack of practice, but she managed conjure a first-aid kit from thin air.

“Ken!” Nyxmon cried out, before her horror quickly turned to rage as she lunged after Piemon like a rabid beast. “I’ll kill you!”

“You intended to do that anyway, my dear!” Piemon said, with a snide smirk. He jumped backwards to avoid the slashing scythe, glancing down at the human children. While he remained smiling, inwardly he grimaced. He could already feel the master’s fury at him for hitting the wrong target. However, he had no way of making a second attempt - not with the element of surprise gone and Nyxmon in hot pursuit - and thus, no reason to linger. With that, he quickly flew skyward, putting distance between himself and the scene.

“You’re running away!?” Panjamon demanded from his helpless position on the ground, clenching his fists. “You attack a helpless child and then flee!?”

“I won’t let you!” Nyxmon snarled, practically quaking with anger as she streaked across the sky like an angel of death.

Piemon simply flashed a grin over his shoulder as he took off into the night, slowly, but steadily, widening the distance between him and Nyxmon due to his maddening speed.

“I’ll get the bastard!” Witchmon snarled, about ready to take off on her broom.

“Witchmon!” FlaWizarmon barked, his voice cutting Witchmon off and causing her to stare at her comrade. Beside him, the first-aid kit box lay open, with spools of bandages unwound and stained with red. “I can’t stop the bleeding! We’ve got to take him to Crystal Tower!”

Witchmon felt her heart jolt before she rushed over to the group of children, allowing Nyxmon to do the chase as she focused on the higher priority. “I’m on it, dearie!”

“Ken! Ken!” Keiko cried out as she cradled the small boy against her, her eyes going moist as she watched the color drain from his face. “Ken, say something! Anything! Answer me!” She continued to plead, to beg the injured boy to respond in some way, even as Witchmon’s cloak engulfed them all.

[cuteeiji]

methods of destruction

au: she’s gone, and she's never coming back. warnings: major character death(s), suicidal ideation, violence word count: 1951

[day 1]

Lucifer breathes.

His throat burns with the weight of the heavy air that doesn’t want to leave his lungs, and his eyes are unfamiliar and salt-soaked. He feels like a stranger in this grieving body, a numb observer behind the panic and tears. His unsure hands shift from tugging at his hair to gripping his neck with enough intensity to crack bone. He glances at her, horrified to look but unable to stop.

She doesn’t move from her cocoon of blankets, mouth parted slightly, hair sprawled out on her pillow. She could’ve been sleeping, if not for her half-lidded, glassy stare.

“It was me?” He asks her softly, voice wavering. “You’re fuckin’ joking.”

Natalie doesn’t reply, just keeps looking at him with unseeing eyes.

[day 3]

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe his Father, maybe a miracle, maybe for her to rise from the dingy motel bed and smile, saying “I knew you cared, you big marshmallow.”

The room is starting to smell. He imagines watching her swollen flesh melt to bone and her bones turn to dust, and he retches with the pain of it. He had thought there was more time.

He had thought he had longer.

Sometime during the day, he finds himself sitting next to her, drawing on some of his limited power to smooth away her blistered skin. There’s no point to it; he’s only delaying the inevitable, but it gives him some peace of mind to know that her body is still there, perfectly preserved. Waiting for her to come back.

He lets himself sleep, if only to forget that her soul is not being so well cared for.

[day 7]

“Lucifer.”

He doesn’t move from his spot, hands threading through her hair, softly drifting more essence into her still form. He could do this forever, if he needed to.

“Lucifer, she wouldn’t want this,” Michael says gently, a tone so foreign it shocks him out of his reverie.

“Well, she’s not here, is she?” He spits out, refusing to look at his brother. “She’s not here and our contract is fulfilled so I can do whatever the fuck I want, can’t I?”

Michael doesn’t speak. He takes a tentative step toward the bed, like he’s approaching a feral animal. Lucifer closes his eyes, a wave of exhaustion overcoming him.

“You look bad, Luce. You need to stop trying to heal her.”

“She’s gone,” he says softly.

“I know.”

“She’s gone,” he repeats, a feeble attempt to explain the despair that was carving a ragged hole into his chest.

“I know, let me take her. I promise I’ll take good care of her,” Michael says.

Absently, Lucifer thinks that they haven’t had such a civil conversation since before the Fall. He doesn’t have the energy to fight today.

“...Okay,” he mutters, but the venom he tries to inject into the word just doesn't come.

Michael lifts her into his arms. One of her hands dangle limply by his brother’s waist, head tilted into his chest. Lucifer had closed her eyes a long time ago; if he forgets hard enough, he can pretend that she’s just asleep.

Michael spares him a pitying look, eyes grazing over the violet shock of horns adorning his head.

“I didn't think you would care this much. I’m really sorry.”

He melts into the air, taking her with him.

[day 30]

He still hasn’t found a way to bring her back. Death doesn't want to do him any favors, even now that he wants it so badly he can taste the rot on his tongue. He swallows his self loathing and lets it sit like hemlock in his stomach.

It's sunset, and he stands on the crest of the ocean, soft waves splashing around his ankles. The sky melts into a polluted orange, and he inhales the cigarette-stained air.

She's here. And tonight, he’ll make her pay.

[day 31]

He wakes up covered in blood.

Maybe a year ago, he would've been filled with a vindictive happiness that he managed to off one of the most powerful beings in existence, but he looks at the red on his hands and feels revulsion rise in his stomach.

She wouldn't have wanted this.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and wipes the red away on his worn tunic.

[day 55]

In true biblical fashion, he decides to wander. After all, that's what murderers do.

You didn't murder me.

Lucifer doesn't reply. It's not her. She locked herself inside of him and threw away the key, and that warm voice is not hers.

He grabs his backpack and starts to walk. He has all the time in the world.

[day 403]

He’s in a bar in Rome when she starts talking again.

“They're looking for you, you know,” Natalie says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “You've seen the signs; the End is drawing nearer.”

“Good,” he says, taking a swig of whiskey. He can't get drunk, but the burn of alcohol down his throat is strangely, painfully satisfying.

She frowns. “Don't say that. I want you to be happy. I want you to care about something.”

“I cared about you, and look where that got me,” Lucifer replies bitterly, voice cracking. “I cared about you, and you left me.”

“I didn't want to.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I fucked up, okay?” He says, gulping down the rest of his drink. “I fucked up and you died and it was all my fault.”

“It wasn’t...I loved you,” she says.

“I remember,” he mumbles into his cup. “I know you did. It just makes it worse.”

[day 2457]

He’s contracted again.

The man who summoned him is not a good one. His eyes are cold, fingers trembling and grimy, lips perpetually lifted upward into an unnerving smile. Lucifer recognizes him instantly.

“What do you want?” He asks icily.

The man inhales a rattling breath.

“I want my memories back,” he whispers, scratching at his arm. “I know someone took them. I know they're gone.”

“You're going to hell for this, you know,” Lucifer says bluntly. “You can't renege on the contract once the deed is done. No way out.”

Jericho barks out a laugh. “I'm going to hell anyways; why not get something out of it while I'm here?”

He looks at Satan imploringly, his pale eyes searching hungrily for approval.

Lucifer remembers the way he had looked at her. The way he took joy in her suffering. The way he carved into her skin without any sign of remorse.

The bastard deserved to remember it, too.

His hand shot out and clenched around Jericho’s skull, fingers pressing harshly into his sandy hair.

“Done,” he says, feeling the contract release.

Jericho enjoys one half-second of his returned memories before he stiffens, eyes widening. “You—”

Lucifer decks him with all the force he has, cartilage and bone splitting under his knuckles. Jericho crumples with a groan.

“When you get to hell,” Lucifer breathes, drawing back his hand, “tell her that I haven't forgotten about her.”

[day 4113]

“Stan?”

It's not the name, but the familiarity of the voice that makes him freeze. He’s in a bar in Oregon, of all the fucking places to be. He really shouldn't have come back to the west.

“Stanley.”

He swivels in place to see Macmillan McAllister, over thirty years old and asthmatic and still half a foot shorter than him, approaching him with a fury that makes him recoil.

“What the fuck did you do to my sister?” He snarls, rising up on the balls of his feet to look him in the eye.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Lucifer lies, forcing himself to meet Max’s gaze.

“Don't lie, you pathetic excuse for a human being,” Max spits, venom on his tongue. “Dad said that Natalie was acting strange the week before she disappeared, and guess who vanished with her?”

Lucifer swallows down the guilt. “We moved. Bad timing,” he replies curtly.

“We checked the school records, Stan, and you were never a student there,” he says harshly. “You had her lying to us from the get-go. I knew there was something fishy about you from the first time I saw your creepy little face.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Lucifer says, bitter lies forcing it’s way through his teeth. “I was fourteen, Natalie was my tutor, I hung out with her for a few months, and I left. I barely think about her nowadays—”

Max isn’t strong by any means, but the fist that flies into Lucifer’s jaw catches him off guard. He stumbles, thrown off balance for just enough time for Max to tackle him to the ground.

“You—ruined—my—life,” He hisses between punches. “Natalie’s gone—Dad’s trying to claw his way back out of the bottle— and it’s all—your—fault.”

Lucifer doesn’t move. He feels his nose break, blood streaming down his face. He feels Max, yelling and struggling, being pulled off of him by the authorities. He feels someone, the bartender, maybe, touch his shoulder, asking him if he’s alright.

He keeps looking at the dark-stained ceiling, wondering what it would feel like to die. It’s about time to call Michael.

[day 4209]

It ends in a garden.

It’s a beautiful place, the leaves melting into orange and brown, hydrangeas and roses withering in the october chill. The plant life gives way to a mile of flatland, tall grass fluttering in the wind. Completely deserted. Perfect for a biblical showdown.

“Fitting,” Michael says wryly, his free hand grazing a rose petal. The other holds his  heavenly weapon, a torch crackling with blue fire. “You always had a flair for the dramatic, Luce.”

Lucifer laughs, walking closer to the field. “And the pot calls the kettle black.”

Michael follows, gazing at the empty meadow. “When I was told there was going to be a final battle between heaven and hell, I wasn’t exactly picturing this,” he says. “I imagined more death and destruction, especially on your end.”

Lucifer hesitates. “...I just want to get this over with,” He replies. “Just you and me, nobody else in the way.”

Michael stops walking. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Making me not want to fight you. It’s really annoying.”

“You’re going to have to,” he says, turning around to face his brother. Michael’s brows are furrowed, lower lip jutted out, but the expression on his face isn’t of petulance. For the first time in his life, Michael looks defiant. Lucifer wants to laugh at the irony, but it turns sour on his throat.

“You have that look in your eyes,” Michael says, “Like you’re just waiting to die. It’s not going to be a fair fight.”

Lucifer remembers when he said the same thing to Natalie when he fought Titus.

That guy’s at the end of his rope. Not much fight left in him. If anything, his eyes look like an animal that just wants to be put down.

He swallows. “Good for you, then. You’ll be the mighty hero who killed the big bad devil.” He starts walking before Michael can respond. “Let’s do this.”

It doesn’t take long for Michael to corner him.

Lucifer is on the ground, haulms of wheat poking at his sides. The heat of the torch Michael holds to his throat is singeing his hair, the blue fire threatening to blister his skin.

“This is because of Gingersnap, isn’t it?” Michael asks softly.

He doesn’t have the words. He just nods.

Michael sighs, closing his eyes, tension leaving his body. “You’ve done a really good job of destroying yourself over the past decade, Luce.”

He opens his eyes. “I’m really sorry about this.” 

He brings down his weapon.

Lucifer smiles.

[meujabutifugiu]

Saudade Part 5

Lol, i´m not dead and I´m still writing this fic. What are the odds? Thanks to @quiversarrow for the help <3

In this chapter we have a new character whose name is part of a headcanon made by @m-alesg (i asked you to use them a looooong time ago, you probably forgot by now - but thanks anyways <3)

Summary: Marinette never believed in the supernatural until she found a pair of earrings and met it’s previous onwer, or better saying: her ghost.

Pairings: Ladynoir/ Adrinette (for now).

Part 1 - Part 2- Part 3 - Part 4 / Read on AO3

--

Chapter 5: Scars

“Why…?” She thought to herself. “Why am I so scared?”

The girl had been sitting on her windowsill for a while by then: one foot barely touching her bedroom floor and the other  dangling in the air next to a tree branch. Two easy leaps and a short run was all she had to do - she had done it before. Yet, there was this sour taste at the back of her throat, a falling feeling in her gut that she couldn’t get rid of - all this hesitation; it didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit. It wasn’t her .

She prided herself in never running from her problems - and really, the girl was sure she could list at least four things that were more dangerous than what she had to face tonight, but a tiny part of her wished -prayed- that at least this once, she could listen to her father and just stay in her bedroom and get some sleep for a change.

“Bridgette!”

The girl's heart body-slammed her ribcage when she heard the small voice calling her name. She turned her head in the door´s direction only to find a child bathed by the moonlight that came came from the window. Bridgette jolted up and walked to her sister almost on her tiptoes, carefully weighing her steps, trying to be as quiet as possible.

“Sabine, what did I say about coming into my room at night?!” She tried to sound patient, but her fright seeped into her whispering voice.

“Not to come after the lights are out…” answered the little girl, making a pouty face, “but..! But, I want to eat pudding and your name is all over it. Can I have it? Please, please, preeety ple-”

Sabine stopped in her tracks once she felt her older sister's hand patting her head. Bridgette took a deep breath, trying to calm down - it could have been worse. If her parents had been the ones showing up at the door, she didn’t know what she would have done. The older sister tried out one of her best smiles but, for some reason, it didn’t seem to fit properly on her face anymore, but that didn’t matter because her room was pitch black and her little sister would never notice her lack of talent for lying.

“You know mom doesn’t want you eating sweets after dinner.”

Sabine lips quivered a little bit as she held the pudding, feeling totally cornered. Bridgette was endeared by how she didn’t seem able to break a rule, so cute and totally different from her. The little girl lifted her eyes, the room dead silent for a second, before her tiny voice said:

“Were you leaving again?”

That question drove through Bridgette like a sharp knife. She always let herself forget that Sabine wasn’t so little anymore.  At ten years old, she was completely able to identify her older sister's´ standard behavior - something that annoyed their parents to no end. Bridgette´s heart beat like a drum as  she tried to imagine the extent of what her sister actually knew, at that moment. She  could only hope it was nothing more than her window leaping into the night.

The older one knelt down and  tried not to  appear as nervous as she was when facing the little girl in front of her. She grabbed Sabine by the shoulders, kindly enough as to not frighten her but firmly enough to let her know she should pay attention to what was being said:

“You know what? You can keep my pudding and I promise not to tell mom and dad as long as you don’t tell them I was gone for the night, ok?”

Her little sister´s jaw dropped.

“Lying??” she questioned, raising her voice in shock.

Bridgette waved her hand up and down, attempting to make Sabine understand that she should keep her voice down. As an answer, her small grey eyes opened wide as she quickly covered her mouth.

“No, it´s not lying!” Bridgette stopped in her tracks, trying to find a nicer way to phrase it. “It´s a secret, a sister’s secret! Between you and me, okay? No one else can know about it!”

Sabine still looked dubious. The oldest took a deep breath, gathering all the courage she had left; it wasn’t easy being honest. Truth always had to be a magic show, flamboyant excuses for half-truths ornamented with pretty distractions as to evade the seeing eyes of what was really going on under the curtains. Smiles and giggles wouldn't do any good now. She would try to let down her make-believes, as much as she possibly could.

“Listen, Sabine, your sister has to go and do something really important right now. It can´t be later. It can´t be tomorrow. I have to go now! I have a friend that can get hurt really really badly if I leave him all alone and I can´t let that happen ag…” She lowered her eyes for a second, nibbling her lip, trying to escape the bad omens clouding her mind. “I just... I need...I need to go! Do you understand?”

The youngest didn’t let out a sound; instead, she lifted her little finger, offering the safest and most important form of contract - when you are a kid, at least. Bridgette sighed in relief as she locked their fingers together.

“It´s our secret, then?”

“It´s our secret!”

Sabine seemed lost in thought for a second; she grabbed the tiny dessert tightly in her hands - just remembering the most important matter in that entire conversation.

“Can I have it?” she pleaded with a tiny but overly sweet  voice.

The girl couldn't help but hug Sabine and allowed herself the luxury of a smile. The little one gasped in surprise and, with her free hand, tried to return the awkward embrace, but despite the cozy warmth and cotton candy scented shampoo, Bridgette could still feel the ominous sensation from outside, sneaking past her window and crawling up her back. The city asleep and so silent; she could hear how it was starting to break apart ever so slightly. Agonizingly. Calling for help. Calling for her.

Bridgette knew she had to oblige. It wasn´t a matter of choice. But for a little while, she would like to pretend that the only thing she had to worry about was her parent’s curfew, the fact that she would probably be grounded tomorrow for sneaking out and giving late night snacks to her sister. Being that “girl trouble” was easier, it was a comfortable mask she didn't mind as much - it was far less complicated than actually being the one fixing up the troubles, patching all the same old cracks perfectly. But she had to. They had to .

But as sweet as a dream is, cold mornings always come to wake you up - even if you refuse to get out of the bed. She knew she couldn't pretend forever and the hug was getting awfully long - Sabine was starting to shift between her arms, not wanting to stay but too considerate to break them apart. The oldest sister took a deep breath, trying to find whatever piece of bravery she had left inside of her.

“Bridgette?” - she felt little taps on her shoulder.

She needed to let go.

Or she was going to end up crying.

“You can have all my share these week, Binnie.” she whispered as if they were about to open a magnificent treasure chest.

As Bridgette turned on her heels, leaving Sabine alone to eating her pudding, her steps felt heavy against the wooden floor and loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Tried as she might to make her walk to the window as light as possible, she was so nervous that the only thing her legs were able to do was march.

This time, the girl jumped right through before she had time to hesitate again, she couldn't let anxiety get the better of her for a second longer. It was only when she landed on the wet grass outside that a small voice asked her:

“When are you coming back?�� It was only  a whisper, but there was still something urgent in her tone.

The girl looked up, catching only a glimpse of Sabine's raven black hair at the window - she was probably on the tips of her toes. Bridgette´s voice stuck in her throat for a moment; the words came out her mouth like a hiccup.

“As fast as I can.”

Bridgette didn´t wait for Sabine to answer. Her voice sounded like promises she didn´t know if she could keep; it was better to leave in silence. Having decided that, she sprinted  into the night. Usually, the girl would find herself a dark alley just so she wouldn't have to go up the gigantic slope on her street - but she could feel Sabine´s gaze burning into  her back, so she turned around and waved goodbye before hiding in a corner, hoping that would be enough to make her little sister go to her room already.

The teenager was out of breath, her sides stinging with a sharp annoying pain every time she tried to gulp for air. From the very top of the slope, her street seemed to flow away like a river, strong waters taking her home and her family to some unknown distant ocean. Sabine on the tip of her toes by the window was like a lighthouse starting to fade away behind the mist. Bridgette tried to catch that light so that she could stay afloat in those turbulent waters.

She didn’t know why, but for some reason, that felt like a goodbye.

“...” - a small voice called her name and snapped the girl out of her reflections.

“...ette…”

A muffled small sound. It was so familiar.

“Marinette!! Sweetie, are you ok?!”

Marinette was startled by how fast her consciousness came rushing back. The girl remembered being taken over by an almost numbing sensation and although the headache had completely vanished, she felt drowsy as if she had just woken up from  a deep and long sleep. However, it didn’t seem like that much time had passed at all; she was still on the same spot on the floor, her mother by her side - the only difference being that Sabine was now desperately fumbling at  her face, checking her cheeks, neck, and forehead looking for an explanation for her daughter´s state.

“Wha...What just happened?” she asked, her voice faltering.

“I don´t know, Mari. You went pale as a sheet of paper and started crying out of nowhere...Are you ok? Is your blood pressure low?”

Now that her mother said it, Marinette realised her face was wet and that tears kept rolling down her face and she wasn't even feeling it, almost like this was happening entirely on its own. She took a deep breath and tried to dry all that salt water with her jacket's sleeve, but despite the clean face, her heart still felt heavy after everything she saw.

Did she really see all that?

For a moment, it was like going to the movies, except  that she was the audience and the main character at the same time, not knowing what was happening and having lived it all once before. She felt each and every exasperated beat inside Bridgette's chest, the wind against her body when she jumped out the window and the wood texture of a tree that didn’t even exist anymore under her fingertips. Mostly, however, she felt that bitter melancholy when she had to turn her back on that cold night, the house drifting away forever.

“It´s ok, mom. I´m alright.” - she tried to reassure her.

“I´m sorry, sweetie,” Sabine said,kissing her daughter´s forehead. “ Here I was telling you all those things and never once did it occur to me to ask  how you were feeling about them. It must had overwhelmed you.”

“Sabine, no. I´m the one who is sorry. How could I forget you?” Marinette almost jumped at the sound of Bridgette´s voice. “I missed you so so much…”

She let out a small laugh.

“It´s weird. You look just like mom now.”

Marinette watched over her mother’s shoulder as the ghost approached them, her arm raised as if she wanted to pet Sabine´s head, just like she did in that recently acquired memory.However, her hand completely went through it and at that moment Marinette saw something had broken inside Bridgette - she tried to touch her sister countless times as if in the next try, if only she tried just one more time, her hand would turn solid again and they would be able to touch.But to no avail. The ghost seemed so lost and sorrowful that Marinette couldn't hold back anymore; her tears were falling from her blue eyes like waterfalls.

Suddenly, Marinette felt herself wrapped in her mother arms and the ghost gave them a puzzled look, eyes drifting from them to her hands and back again, desperately trying to understand what she was lacking.

“You are so sweet, Mari.” Sabine whispered. “You even cry over other people’s sadness.”

Marinette was actually  disgusted with herself. She was a despicable, horrible person for stealing Bridgette´s most precious wish right before her eyes, and she didn’t know how compensate for it. The only solution that came to her was hugging Sabine back, as tightly as she could - trying to make it up for the reunion they would never have. And then, the girl felt engulfed by a strange nostalgia: she wanted to take her mother in her arms and lull her sadness away.

At the end of that thought, Marinette realised how weird it was for her to want that. She never carried her mother. Even if she wanted to, Sabine would never have  fit in her arms -she had never lived a moment like that and could never miss it. Her blue eyes landed on the ghost wearing a melancholic smile on her face.

Those feelings may be strange to her, but not to Bridgette.

“You know, I don't want my sister to be a scar I´m trying to hide away or forget.” She paused after slowly letting go. “I want to remember her as the beautiful memory that she is, so…”

Sabine got up and took the heart-shaped box off her daughter´s writing desk. After not giving the post it left there on the night before so much as a brief read, she crumpled the tiny yellow note and tossed it in a trash can beside the desk.

“I want you to have it all, sweetie. The earrings, the clothes - use them to your heart’s content, if you still want them. They deserve a little bit of air instead of being locked inside all those boxes.”

Marinette smiled, silently thanking her. The old album was now in her hands. As if her mother knew they were going to be needed at some point, she added:

“You can keep the album too. And don´t worry about it, you can give it back whenever you want.”

The girl opened her mouth as if to say something, but she was rudely interrupted by the growling of her own stomach, desperately pleading for the breakfast it hadn’t  had - completely ruining the touching moment between mother and daughters that was happening at the moment. Marinette let out an awkward laugh.

“I´ll go downstairs and make you some coffee, Mari,” Sabine said to a daughter with blushing cheeks. “I have to hurry; your dad must be crazy busy at the bakery.”

Sabine stretched her back a little before heading towards the door. Marinette got up and, out of habit, took her phone out of her pocket to check the time. Suddenly she felt like an old cartoon character at the verge of being knocked down. Her anvil was the crushing realisation that an english test was going on at her school and she wasn't in the classroom, not even near the school gates for that matter.

“Mom...I...I had an exam today.”

Marinette´s smiled nervously, feeling her heart body slamming her chest just at the thought of what her mother would say. One shall not miss exam days at school, under no circumstances - NEVER- unless one was considered too sick to leave the bed - that was possibly one of  the most important rules on their household. And now, for the first time ever, it lay broken right before their eyes.

She expected to receive the most mortal of stares and the worst lecture of history, but, strangely enough, Sabine just sighed tiredly while crossing her arms, as if surrendering to the situation.

“Ok, I´ll call you in sick.” The girl eye´s sparkled upon hearing those words, so Sabine added, her eyes narrowing, “But don´t get used to it; today was an exception.”

“It´s our secret, then?” Marinette asked.

Sabine let out a small smile.“It´s our secret.”

Bridgette watched as her little sister started to make her way through the door and down the stairs and, suddenly, the ghost turned herself to Marinette - her voice was urgent.

“Please, can you tell her -”

“Mom!” she called and Sabine pushed the trapdoor open again. “Whatever happened...it wasn't your fault, please, don't blame yourself.”

Her smile was tiny and passed way too fast, but for the first time that morning it didn't look like her heart was being pierced by a thousand glass shards. It was still a little sad, something was broken and hurting - but it was getting better.Marinette sighed, feeling that everything was going to be ok eventually.

They kept the silence for a while. Sabine´s footsteps going down the stairs was the only sound filling the room and when they vanished completely, the ghost squealed anxiously almost like she was about to explode with all the things she wanted to say.

“Oh my god, I need to tell you what I just remembered!! You will not believ-”

“I know.” she said, blankly.

“Uh...You know what? I haven't told you a thing.” The ghost frowned, “You are killing my moment here.”

“How weird would it be if I told you that I kiiinda remembered the thing with you?”

“Wait. You mean, you saw my memory at the same time that I recalled it?” the other girl nodded. “Yeah...pretty weird.”

“Right?! I mean I don´t even know what happened, “ Marinette said, messing with her bangs as she tried to think, “ I started to feel some sort of headache when you were trembling and then I just passed out...and it just...came to me?”

Bridgette´s eyebrows rose in confusion, and it hit Marinette just how crazy everything sounded. Granted that a few hours ago the girl would never have believed her words either, but she couldn't deny everything that she saw, everything that she felt. Bridgette shivered for a moment - and the other girl found that a little funny, since she was a literal ghost getting freaked out.

“Yikes, so it’s like we are connected or something?”

“I...I guess so?”

The transparent girl crossed her legs, sitting on thin air. She opened her mouth to say something, but her voice failed to come out - the laughs arrived a second later as a cover up and Marinette wondered why Bridgette´s eyes seemed to be glued on the floor.

“Hey… Well, do you think…” The ghost started to roll the tips of one of her pigtails around her finger. “When you were crying, do you think...well, a little bit of that could have been from me? You know...since we are connected and all.”

“Did you want to cry?”

“Desperately,” she confirmed, a little bit embarrassed.

Marinette lips curled into a tiny smile as she flipped absentmindedly through  the album.

“It could be. I mean, Mom did say I was crying even before waking up.” Marinette tried to lighten the mood and paused for a second before adding, “ And I´m not that much of a crybaby for starters.”

“ Pssh. Yeah, right.” Bridgette snorted but then completed in a much softer tone, “You are so silly Marinette, you even cry at other people's sadness.”

Silence.

“ But thank you, I mean it.” The ghost gave her a warm smile.

At that moment, Bridgette sounded so distant, as if she could disappear in a blink of Marinette´s eyes. But before she could let out a word, the girl felt something land gently above her feet and the girl promptly lowered herself to pick it up  - when she rose, the transparent girl was right beside her with her curious blue eyes.

The object in question was an old polaroid that was probably loose inside the album. The image was pretty blurry and the people on it were just barely in the frame. The first one was a girl with a long blond braid, her face above the tip of her nose was out of the photo, but there was a beauty spot on her left cheek and her pink colored lips shaped a flawless smile worth of a toothpaste ad. By the angle of her elbow Marinette could only supposed she had her arm around her friend's shoulders.The second one, Bridgette, only had the top of her head on the picture, the shape of her eyes hinting that she was probably smiling too.

Marinette thought that she really took for granted how easy it was to take selfies with her smartphone all these years.

“Bridgette and Allegra, Spring ´85.” she read at the bottom of the photo, the letters written in pink ink were starting to fade. “ Do you remember that?”

The ghost squinted trying to make sense of the blurry people framed in that polaroid.

“No…but maybe if I concentrate really hard something will happen!”

“Wow, hold on there! You will end up frying my brain.” She meant it as a joke, but now that she had  said it - maybe it could happen. “Do you think she is one of your delinquent friends?”

“I´M NOT A DELINQUENT! NEITHER IS SHE...PROBABLY, I GUESS!!”

“I´m just kidding, just kidding!”

Marinette giggled as she put the polaroid inside her sketchbook, she had to admit that having Bridgette around was pretty fun - painful headaches apart. Then, she placed the album inside her desk drawer before heading to her wardrobe to get a fresh change of clothes. After  all of that, she deserved a warm cup of coffee and a long shower.

“What I´m saying is: I really want to know the story behind you and your mysterious friends.”

As soon as the girl pulled her wardrobe's door open a flood of posters and photos started to pour down between them. The ghost notice the same pattern in all those pieces of papers - every single one of them had the same blond boy with emerald eyes, his name printed in different styles of typography on several fashion magazines covers. Marinette felt like her cheeks were on fire as Bridgette smiled mischievously.

“Adrien, huh? Now that's a story I really want to know.”

[this-basic-mage]

The Light that Binds Us

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899525/chapters/39698892

Bart Trevelyan thought he was done with The Chantry after he ran off to become a bard/mercenary/professional bum. But after fours years of wondering Thedas he finds himself en route to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to beg his wealthy family for more money (again). Ariel Lavellan is the First of her Dalish clan, but she seems more interested in digging around ruins and hoarding various junk human travellers leave behind than learning the duties of a Keeper. But as she travels to The Conclave she finds the world is a lot more than she thought. Neither are meant to be leaders, yet that's exactly what they must become when they emerge from the rumble of The Conclave with the answer to Thedas’s salvation burned into their hands…

A sharp wind sailed down the Frost Back Mountains, whipping the fine white snow across the burnt orange sky and right into the disgruntled traveller’s face. As if walking up a hill in five inches of well-trodden slush, which was already on its way to turning to ice in the evening cold, wasn’t bad enough he had to stop every few paces to pull his damp woollen scarf back over his numb nose. Not to mention the rolled up tent that batted against his thighs with every step, or the holes in his gloves. He certainly wasn’t the most dishevelled person on the road to the village of pilgrims, those apostates really did look like they’d spent the last few months hiding in hedges and ditches, but he definitely knew what he was going to spent that piece of his inheritance on: a whole new wardrobe. A horse would be nice too, or at least a donkey to carry all his damn equipment.

“Urgh, fuck the Maker,” he muttered at the crowd overflowing from the settlement’s only tavern/inn. He’d thought what with the Temple of Sacred Ashes becoming the prime tourist destination for any self-respecting Andrastian they would’ve built at least one more in the last ten years. But even if that had been the case he couldn’t have really expected to get a room now, could he? The road had been clogged up with mages, Templars, clergy, and Maker knows how many bureaucrats since he’d joined it that morning. Another night in the tent it was then, if he could find a dry place to pitch it far enough from the route of the drunken rabble the tavern/inn would be evicted in the early hours that is. Well, there was nothing stopping him having a drink first, even if he had to stand elbow to elbow with his fellow travellers at least he’d be standing in the warmth.

As entered he pulled down his scarf to breathe in that earthy smell of beer, jellied meat, ashes, and vague damp that always radiates from such places. The inside was as crowded as he thought it would be, even the stairs leading up to the rooms had become extra seats for the barrage of patrons. He tried to slowly weave his way through them, but all his worldly possessions on his back made it impossible not to hit someone with it every couple of steps. He gave up muttering any apologies when it became apparent they were getting lost in the thick mist of a hundred conversations happening at once.

When he got close enough to take in the bustle around the bar itself he was relieved that at least the barman was keeping on top of things. The old man paced up and down the bar dishing out tankards with the same leisurely pace as he would serve the dozen or so villagers and pilgrims that came in on any other night, no matter how many impatient hands were waved in his direction. He didn’t even bat an eyelid when the towering form of a Qunari lent right across the bar to get his attention. The top of her curled horns scrapped against a low hanging beam, dislodging one of the cups than hung from it. It fell out of the traveller’s sight, he didn’t even hear it smash above the noise between them, but he did see the golden tip of the Qunari’s left horn glint in the candlelight as she freed herself from the timber and shook her head at whatever the barman was saying. It couldn’t be, could it? What would she doing here? She made a mockingly resigned gesture before straightening up and reaching for something in the pocket of her crimson coat. A coat she’d had made out of Deepstalker hide after they’d killed an entire nest of the blighters that time they’d tried to find some smugglers’ hideout on the Storm Coast because ‘I want to get at least something out of this wild fucking Nug chase’…

“Ataashi!” he waved across the crowd. She didn’t even glance his way. “Hey, Ataashi!”

He barged his way to her side. It better be her otherwise he was going to look an utter fool.

“Ha, no way! Bartholomew Trevelyan, you son of a bitch. Come to bum another drink off me after bailing on a job, have you?” Yes, it was Ataashi alright. “Well, tough luck, I’m all out,” she emptied a coin purse with frayed embroidery onto the counter. The barman counted the coins, nodded to himself, then shuffled off to get a broom.

“Aw come on, you’re not still mad about that, are you? I’d talked about going to Orlais for ages. And I said plenty of times in advance I don’t do giant spiders.”

“Doesn’t make you any less of an ass for fucking off before we got a replacement for you. Elera was right, it really should’ve been a six-man job,” she shuddered. “One bit me right on the ass, made it go numb for two days straight.”

It was this bit of oversharing, and the way she leant on the bar, that finally tipped Bart off to the fact she was at least a bit tipsy.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to get a table. And no, you can’t join us.”

“Us? So the rest of the crew is here too,” Bart took a longer harder look around the room. Ataashi let out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, but we’re on a job so-”

An elven man in the corner of the room threw his tankard up with a cheer and pointed in their direction. The rest of the table had a similar reaction when they followed his gaze. Bart grinned and waved back.

“Not at the moment you’re not.”

The elf and his companions at the crowded table beckoned him over. Bart certainly hadn’t planned to run into them, but he couldn’t deny his luck as he started towards them. He may have hesitated to call anyone at that table his friends, but catching up with them was just the kind of distraction he needed after the long day of travelling, and the even longer day to come.

“Hey, get back here!” Ataashi barrelled in front of him, nearly knocking a couple of unsuspecting patrons over. “Do really think you can just strut in here and act like nothing happened?” bending down so that her glaring amber eyes were level with his startled hazels.

Bart flinched at this before regaining his cool and holding his hands up.

“Whoa, Tash! Aren’t you the tiniest bit pleased to see me? I mean, we did-”

“Nope, not at all.”

“…Well the others are. Just let me catch up with them at least.”

He didn’t remember Ataashi being the spiteful cold-shoulder type. So either she took…what they had, more seriously that he’d thought, or that cold shoulder was more of a lukewarm one, testing him. Making him work for his spot at their table now he wasn’t a Dragon anymore, if he ever officially was. “Hey, how does this sound?” he raised his voice so the others could hear. “Since this place looks packed to rafters I’ll gift the money I was going to spend on my room to you, to buy another round for everyone!”

There was a roar of approval at this.

“And no excuses about work in the morning,” he dug a coin pouch out of his trouser pocket. “How does that motto go again?” he asked the table. “There’s no job that can’t be done with a hangover!” the mercs yelled in unison.

Their leader frowned at them, then at Bart, then back at them. Bart held the pouch out to her, it wasn’t anywhere near as weighty as he’d like. “Just one round though. Unless you only get beer.”

She frowned at the money, then back at him.

“You know I won’t,” She snatched it from him with a little smile he couldn’t figure out was resigned or triumphant. “We’re playing Wicked Grace, Balvik will deal you in.”

“How can I? I’ve got nothing left to bet with,” he gestured at the pouch already retreating out of his sight as Ataashi went back to the bar.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You still got that pretty pair of daggers daddy bought you?” Balvik, a dwarf with a beard so dark and thick it was impossible to tell where it ended and his Carta tattoos began, teased as he shuffled dished out the cards.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I bought my babies with my own money. Well, Father’s money…but still, I’d sooner give away the boots on feet than those,” He gave one of the ornate sheathed blades a squeeze and he slotted himself between Elera sour-faced elf of few words, and the wall.

“Pity, they’d make great letter openers,” the dwarf’s retort earned a bigger laugh, especially from his fellow axe wielder Elera. She handed him some cards and nodded at the table.

“Hey, I’m buying you all drinks. Doesn’t that exclude me from betting for at least one round?”

There was a chorus of ‘no’s.

“Well too bad, I gave all my money to Ataashi.”

“You don’t get out of it that easy Trevelyan, you could fill a house with the shit strapped to your back. You’ve got plenty to bet,” Faron, the elf who’d first spotted him, said.

“Yeah, don’t you remember the rules deserter? You’ve got to pay to play, one way or another. Or you could just run back to Orlais,” a boy who couldn’t be a day over sixteen patted the table with a grin.

“What? You weren’t even there when I left!”

The boy just laughed at his dismay and tapped the wood more insistently. Looking around at all the other playfully mocking faces Bart couldn’t help but think this was some kind of impromptu revenge. So much for being welcomed back. Oh well, they’d forget about it after Ataashi came back with the drinks. In the meantime he’d have to just be a good sport and roll with the punches.

“Alright, alright,” he comically rolled his eyes before fumbling with his backpack. He pulled out the first thing he found and slammed it on the table. “Ah ha: a cup! Made of finniest tin. Quite a prize.”

By the time Ataashi returned with three bottles of ‘the best wine I could get’ he’d lost that cup to the boy, whose name was Darren (or something beginning with d), and was starting to wonder if bumping into his old friends was really a blessing after all, especially when she confirmed she’d spent every penny he had. He should’ve expected that, The Dragons were experts at spending each other’s money, in fact what he remembered these games Wicked Grace was kind of like their personal bank. They poured all their money into it, withdrew some by winning, and saw the rest get stored away by whoever became the group accountant after being the biggest winner of the night. Thank the Maker that hadn’t been him when he took off, otherwise he’d got more than snide comments from them. But he couldn’t reach up to those hands so easily, he had to travel across half the country to get his share. At least that meant he’d actually earned it, in a way.

“Wow, was that really your last bit of cash?” Ataashi chuckled as he slapped his riding gloves onto the table for his latest bet.

“If I don’t win anything it was,” Bart tried to sound hopeful.

“Considering Elera is playing I don’t fancy your chances kid. Unless she’s willing to go easy on you,” Balvik muttered from behind his cards. Elera scoffed at this possibility.

“Huh, you’d think a rich boy would be better at taking care of his money. They usually hoard their fortune until it poured out of their cold dead hands into the open palms of their children,” Ataashi pondered as she uncorked the bottles with no effort.

“‘poured out of their cold dead hands’, how poetic Tash,” Faron poured another into his tankard which still some beer at the bottom.

“I’m quite the bard after a few drinks. After finishing this you might even get me singing,” she took a swing of the deep red liquid right out of her bottle.

“Well Tash, unlike those other noble pricks I can’t reach up to those hands so easily. I had to travel halfway across the country to get my share. So I’ve actually earned my inheritance, in a way,” this earned him a much bigger laugh than any of his deliberate jokes.

“Wait, aren’t your family all back in Ostwick?” She asked.

“All except my uncle, who just so happens to also be the lawyer overseeing my dear departed Grandmama’s estate. Trust my luck to start asking about what she left me right as he’s whisked away to The Conclave to help with all the bureaucracy that goes along with that. He insisted I meet him here to talk it over.”

“And that couldn’t be done through letters because…”

“Fuck should I know? Probably another of Mother’s ploys to bring me back into the light of the chantry. Though I can’t see why hanging around intense negotiations between magic wielding madmen and sword-wielding fanatics will give me a spiritual awakening,” Bart lowered his cards to look for the third bottle. When he saw it was in Elera’s vice grip he gestured to Ataashi to let him have some of hers. After a moment’s pause she passed it over. The wine was very dry with only an afterthought of any flavour resembling fruit. Definitely made in Ferelden.

“Urgh, don’t. We all agreed we wouldn’t discuss politics here,” she leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “We travelled through The Hinterlands to get here. The place looks like The Blight hit it. Burned cottages and fields…” she took the bottle back to another big swig from it. “I don’t think this conclave thing is going to work. Too much blood has been spilt.”

“Probably not, but at least they’ll be arguing about it instead of just trying to kill each other. If the rest of those bureaucrats and diplomats are anything like my uncle they’ll get something out of it. Maybe even a ceasefire,” Bart shrugged as if he hadn’t been thinking about it for most of the trek up to Haven. All he’d been able to conclude was that it was hard to be optimistic when you were neutral because you could see the fools on both sides.

“I don’t think our client is very hopeful. Don’t tell him this but he’s really overpaid us to be his bodyguards. He’s some noble mage sympathiser. All three of his kids have ended up in the Circle. Well, they were in The Circle.”

“Wow, all three kids. That’s…unfortunate,” Bart tried to focus on his cards, but the serious turn in conversation and the wine going rather suddenly to his head made that difficult.

A wealthy client. That would explain the particularly good spirits everyone was in. Bart wondered if that meant they’d been put up in rooms as well. Perhaps there was room for him on someone’s floor.

“I still think he’s planning on finding his apostate kids and making a run for it. Hide them in the depths of his big castle or something,” Elera piped up.

“In that case he’s not paid us enough to deal with pissed off Templars. Maybe you were right to bail on us, Bart. We always get the shit end of the stick,” Balvik placed his hands on the table.

“I think everyone is dealing with the shit end right now. Civil war to the left of the mountains, mage rebellion to the right. And here we are, stuck in the middle with the bloody Chantry. After I get my money I’m sailing off to Antiva. All I’ll have to worry about there is sunburn and assassins.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Ataashi wiped some wine off her lips, smudging the rouge in the process. “Any chance you can take us along? I would kill for a holiday.”

“Ha! Haven’t I given you people enough already?” he felt his laugh die in his throat the moment he showed his losing hand. Elera raked her winnings over to her.

“Nice gloves, Trevelyan” she smiled as she tried on Bart’s former riding gloves.

“Can I have the wine back, Ataashi?” he asked meekly.

“Haven’t I given you enough already?” she smirked before downing the rest then slamming the empty bottle onto the table in front of him.

Who needed the Maker to dish out divine punishment when people could do that just fine by themselves?

**********

White mist enveloped the rusty lock as the Dalish mage channelled an icy breath from The Fade through her fingers. The chest had been quite a find, hidden under a bed that hadn’t been slept in for a very long time. The rest of the cabin hadn’t turned up anything of note really, a few cups and pots, a wooden figure of Andraste missing an arm, plenty of bugs. Usually she wasn’t so fussy about what she took, but now that she was travelling alone she had to be more selective. Her bag didn’t have unlimited space. Hopefully the contents of this box was worth the discomfort of using ice magic when she was already cold. She gritted her teeth as the wind slipped through one of the many holes in the roof and ran a finger down her exposed collarbone. But she couldn’t draw her cloak tighter or etch up her scarf until that lock was covered in ice.

She withdrew her hand from the crystals of ice that now spiked off the lock and picked her staff up off the dusty floor. The ice cracked and splintered as she struck at it repeatedly with the blunt end. Her strikes were hard and quick, conscious of the noise it created in the twilight, but it still took longer than she’d care to admit until the lock finally broke and clattered to the floor.

The chest groaned as she lifted the lid, the musty smell of disturbed dust flying up to greet her. Most of the space inside was taken up by something long and wrapped in a cloth. She unwrapped it to find a sword untainted by rust. In fact, she could see her smile reflected along the broad steel. The handle was made from a darker heavier metal with a sigil of a griffon engraved at the bottom. Whoever wielded it must’ve been strong, considering she could barely keep the tip pointing upward let alone swing it. She wondered what the warriors in her clan would make of it compared to their light ironbark blades. Souren, their craftsmen, would probably make some comment about primitive Shem smithery. She’d assumed such a lonely cabin in the middle of the woods would’ve belonged to some…what did humans call them? Tree Cutters? Wood People? Woodsman, that’s what one of her books called it. There was a large pile of logs outside that had become a haven for beetles, perhaps he’d meant to sell them to the nearest village. Or perhaps a Huntsman, or were they known as rangers? Were they even the same thing? But there was no axe or bow, just this sword. Important enough to preserve, but not important enough to take with them. She fished out the sparse contents of the rest of the chest for more clues. An amulet with a blood red stone in the centre of some engraved runes. She vaguely recognised a couple of symbols from similar jewellery worn by human travellers the clan had crossed paths with over the years. She knew they were for protection, whether this protection came from enchantment or just a promise of good fortune she couldn’t remember. Since humans hated magic so much it was probably the latter, she couldn’t feel any emanating from this one anyway. The only other things in the chest were letters written in a pretty cursive hand, a hand that she couldn’t read in the fading light. She sprung up and organised them into a pile on the table, and tried and failed to lift the sword up to that height. It remained on the floor for now; lighting her was more important. She went to retrieve it from her pack by the entrance. A sharp gust of wind banged the door against the wall the moment she picked it up, rusty hinges screaming in surprise. She’d left it open to let the last of the natural light in since the windows were too clogged with dust and cobweb to be of much use. But now all it was really letting in was the cold. She began to close it, but stopped, breath freezing in her throat. A dark shape stood in the clearing between the cabin and the woods. A human shape.

She stared it down, silently willing it along. But it stayed right where it was, at the edge of the clearing, directly facing her. Creators, where was her staff? On the bed, out of reach. The magic she could channel from her hands wouldn’t be able to reach the shadow, at least not enough to hurt it. But maybe she didn’t need to… The figure strode forward. She threw the door wide open, lightning bursting out of her fingertips. Purple contrasting against the last red rays of the sunset.

“Stay back!” she yelled, lowering her hand just enough for the electricity to strike the snow, causing it to steam and hiss. But the shadow continued undeterred. “One more step and I’ll bring out my staff.” The shadow raised its hands. Could Templars dispel magic without a weapon as easily as a mage could cast it? With little other options she let out one more intense bout of lightning. The crack of energy made the hairs free of her braid to frizz and stand on end. In the burst of light she leapt to the bed and grabbed her staff. She turned back, blinked, a kaleidoscope of colour crossing her vision, the moss green crystal on the end of her weapon pointed at the entrance, the adrenaline pulsing through veins causing it to quiver in her grip. Painstakingly slowly everything came back into focus. Yet the figure still didn’t attack. It just kept its arms up.

“I stopped, just as you ordered. And you still got your weapon?” it stated in a raspy yet placid voice. The last sparks of lightning faded into the dusk sky.

“I have none of my own. I have no intention of harming you,” it elaborated when she failed to respond beyond lowering her staff slightly.

“Why didn’t you say that earlier?” she finally managed to get out.

“I was about to. But your attacks made it difficult for me to communicate this to you.”

“I wasn’t attacking you, I was threatening you,” she squinted out at them. They appeared to be wearing some kind of robe with the hood up that threw shadow over the parts of their face that weren’t covered by a fair beard. They couldn’t be a mage, could they? Where was their staff?

“Hmm, understandable I suppose, being a lone apostate one must be cautious.”

“Are you alone as well,” she cursed herself for confirming she was by herself.

“I am. And I assure you I found this place the same way I assume you did: sheer luck,” they shifted where the stood, lowering their arms and clenching and unclenching their fists to return the blood flow. “I’m very cold, may I come in? I promise you I’m not a Templar.”

“Well, I figured out that much,” she brought the staff to her side but kept a firm grip on it. “Who are you?”

“Martin Amell. Formerly of the Ferelden Circle of Magi. And you are?”

“Ariel Lavellan,” she relaxed a little at this news. He may be a world away from her, but they had one thing in common at least: magic.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he smiled with only his mouth. “So, am I allowed in, or shall I keep walking? I’m sorry to press you on this matter, but as I said, it’s very cold out here.”

She gave him another once over with her eyes and noticed his right sleeve had been singed by her magic.

“…You can stay until the snow stops falling,” She stood aside to let him through.

“Thank you,” he nodded and entered.

He sat down on the bed as Ariel pulled that lantern out of her pack. It took a few attempts to light the candle within (fire magic was not her strong suit). But just as she thought of asking her fellow mage for help a spark caught the wick and the cottage was bathed in a low orange light. Martin’s face was very pale, combined with his thin lips and large dark brown eyes it made him look sickly. She wondered if it was from being trapped in a Circle tower, perhaps they didn’t have any windows there. And then there was the faint mark on his forehead, partially obscured by the shadow of his hood… She didn’t realise she’d been staring until he gave her that polite smile again.

“So…have you travelled far?” she awkwardly took a seat and placed her staff on the table.

“Yes, I was near Ostagar when I heard news of the Conclave,” he lowered his hood, a few strands of greasy dirty blonde hair falling on his face.

“Ah,” she nodded as if the name rang more than a small bell for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes of that mark, she could see now it was a circle, too neat to be a scar. And his complexion wasn’t natural, there were lines across his cheeks and swirls around the mark which suggested he’d painted his face like she’d heard rich human ladies liked to do.

“What about you?”

“The Free Marches,” like her name she saw no reason not to tell the truth. People from all over Thedas had converged here for the Conclave.

“Is that where the rest of your clan is now?”

“How did you-”

“Your face tattoos.”

“Oh…of course,” she moved her hand away from her staff. Blood rushed to her mortified face, the sudden heat making her pull her hood off. Creators, she’d been travelling for weeks now, how could she still forget about her damn vallaslin! Well, in her defence most people gave away when it was visible by staring at her, and sometimes worse. “…Yes.”

“Why did they send you to The Conclave alone?” he didn't sound concerned, or even curious. In fact, everything he’d said had been delivered with a flat, factual, calm. It may have made all his questions sound less like an interrogation, but it also made him completely unreadable.

“Did they teach you some mind reading magic in The Circle?” she tried to make it sound more like a joke than an actual inquiry.

“No, I just see any other reason you’d be so far away from them.”

“Well, I’m the only other mage they have. And obviously our Keeper can’t come.”

“I see,” it was Martin’s turn to nod as if he understood her completely. “And I thought being thrust out of the safety of The Circle back into the outside world was surreal. At least I was still raised in civilisation, albeit an island one. Not that the Dalish aren’t civilised. They’re just…different.”

“Well, I managed to get here on time, so I suppose we’re not completely hopeless out of the woods,” with no human trinkets or mysterious shadows to distract her anymore she became aware of the hunger grinding away at her stomach.

“And yet here you are. In the abandoned shack of a woodsman a good two miles or so from Haven.”

“Huh, I thought it was a woodsman,” she smiled at this confirmation as she rooted through her backpack. “I thought it would be faster to avoid the traffic on the roads by cutting through the forest, re-join further up. But I didn’t take the snow into account.”

It was still better than suffocating in the village. Sitting by the fire with the clan could be draining enough for her, let alone a human settlement with its narrow muddy roads and static stone buildings stuffed to bursting point.

“Are you hungry? I have some bread, some cheese, and some cured meats,” She pulled out the greasy paper bag with all these things inside. Martin appeared to think for a moment. “I also have bandages, and a poultice for that arm.”

Martin probed the tare in his coat.

“I think I need a sewing needle more than bandages, the lightning barely touched my skin.”

“Ah, well, I suppose that’s one good thing about this weather: makes you put on extra padding,” she couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed at this. Whether it was the way he brushed off her power or that she couldn’t easily make amends for her hastiness in using it she didn’t know.

“Although I wouldn’t mind some cheese. Not wise to sleep on a completely empty stomach.”

“Of course,” she broke a sizable bit off the yellow and handed it to him.

They ate in silence, the wooden boards of the cabin creaking and groaning as it constricted against the cold air outside. Ariel drew those letters closer to her, studying their words in the candlelight. She couldn’t cipher much from them. Like many Dalish elves she’d been raised bilingual due to the patchy preservation of her mother tongue, but only in the spoken word. Most of the books she’d studied under Keeper Deshanna were in Elvish. In fact she couldn’t get past the first couple of lines (basic greetings and ‘I hope this finds you well’) without the urge to whisper every word under her breath, which she didn’t want to do in the presence of Martin. He probably thought her being here was ridiculous enough without learning she could barely read the common language or whatever humans called it. And she’d heard somewhere talking with your mouth full was very offensive to them.

She folded the papers up and stuffed them into the overflowing backpack.

“I doubt you would get much for those,” the mage piped up.

“For what?” she mumbled through a mouthful of crusty bread. So much for etiquette.

“For the things you looted from this place, and a few others by the looks of things,” he nodded at the backpack.

“Looting?! I’m not looting…I’m collecting,” she quickly did the bag back up and nudged it closer to her with her foot.

“For what purpose?”

“What purpose? Uh…” she struggled to swallow the last of the dry bread down. “…research.” She finally said as if she’d only just learned the meaning of the word.

“Research?”

“Yes. It’s not like I ran into humans, every day.”

“I see,” he clearly did not. “Does that research include this gigantic sword at my feet?”

The candlelight stroked the blade on the floor, making its surface appear molten.

“Considering I can barely lift the thing, probably not,” but then she didn’t like the prospect of leaving such a weapon where anyone could find it.

“Then I think I’ll like to take it with me. I don’t know if I can make much use of it myself, but a Grey Warden-issued great sword would serve as a good deterrent against any bandits.”

“What would you need a sword for? You have your magic.”

“Oh, I don’t have any magic,” he started rubbing his forehead.

“But, you said you used to be with the Ferelden Circle…” the realisation of what he was saying hit her stomach before her brain.

“I was…” he brought his hand back to his side revealing the mark on his forehead to be some kind of brand. A brand in the shape of something even she knew well: the sunburst of The Chantry. “…You have heard of the Tranquil, haven’t you?”

Yes, she had: ‘If you stray too close to the shemlen’s village, Da’lin, the Templars will lock you away in a big tower. And if you don’t do everything they say they’ll take away all your magic and your dreams. In fact, you’ll have no emotions at all!’ Of course, she never doubted the existence of the Templars. She’d heard human traders mutter about them through sideways glances at her and Keeper Deshanna’s staffs on the few occasions the clan did business with them. The Tranquil, on the other hand: an out of control rumour at best, a complete horror story at worst. And yet here was a mage with no staff sitting across from her with a face as blank as a mask and a voice as monotone as they come.

The intuitive unease she’d first felt rippled through the rest of her body, putting her hands back on her staff. Martin stared at her with those dark stones of eyes set into a white face.

“Hmm…it seems you have. I suppose elves have just as much of a hard time understanding that means I have no desire to hurt you. Or do anything to you for that matter,” saying this in that flat voice of his made him sound more patronising than reassuring.

“…What did you do?” she finally asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you do to have that done to you?” a sticky sickly feeling clung to the back of her throat. Such an unimaginable punishment must be for an unimaginable crime.

“I simply didn’t want to risk the Harrowing. And it really was a risk for me. From what I remember my magic was only strong when I was angry, which only served to make me even angrier. Exactly the sort of frustration a demon would exploit.”

“But even if your magic was weak it was still yours. And you emotions-”

“You didn’t grow up in the Circle. You wouldn’t understand,” he didn’t sound angry (of course he didn’t), but there was a finality to his words that plunged them into a silence that only fuelled Ariel’s anxiety. “…I don’t feel nothing exactly. I feel…a general sense of…wells, tranquillity. Like the levity you feel when you realise you’ve been dreaming. Whatever imaginary monsters were chasing you were just that, figments of your mind. They cannot bother you anymore, let alone hurt you. You can just keep on walking until wake up.”

“Except you’ll never wake up,” Ariel pulled her staff into her lap, running her hands along it absentmindedly. The action didn’t sooth her. Instead she imagined that village on the other side of the woods. How many of the mages sleeping there tonight were like Martin? Did they accept their fate as gladly as he did? How many more Tranquil will be made if this Divine woman ruled in favour of the Templars?

“Why did you come here, Martin? What do you hope will happen at The Conclave?”

“I hope that order will be restored. That I can return to my work enchanting runes,” Martin shuffled closer to the other window.

“You want to go back to the people that did this to you, to a prison!”

He didn’t return her shocked stare.

“It wasn’t a prison to me, it was a sanctuary. I certainly didn’t leave it of my own accord, I was rather forcibly taken by some mages when things fell apart, something about not wanting to leave anyone behind. Well,” he wiped the grime away with his sleeve. “As you can see, they did leave me in the end.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry,” she looked back down at her staff.

“Don’t be. I should’ve seen it coming, mages have never really liked being around me. And ordinary people I’ve encountered who don’t know what to think. Hence the face paint, makes things easier,” he leaned closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes. “I think the snow has settled now.”

He rose and pulled his hood up.

“Wait,” her chair scraped against the wooden floor as she rose out it. Martin stopped and waited for a follow up that didn’t seem to want to come out. Her stomach still clenched at the thought of sleeping in this cabin with him. But if she let him go now she knew her guilt wouldn’t let her sleep at all. “…You stay, I’ll go.”

“It’s quite alright, I-”

“I have a tent somewhere in here,” she hauled the heavy pack back onto her shoulders. “And lantern.” She picked it up, causing the light swirl around the room. “That is, unless you don’t have any candles.”

“I have no concerns about the dark, and I’ve got a sword now,” he nudged the blade on the floor again.

“Good,” with her staff by her side and started towards the door. “Well...have a safe journey.”

Martin blocked her way. Even after everything, she couldn’t help taking a step back.

“If you do insist on going, take this,” he reached into the depths of his pocket. “You’ll need it more than I will to blend in with the Circle mages.”

He handed her a tin about the size of her palm. She screwed it open to find a white paste with clear tracks from when he’d applied it to his face.

“Thank you,” she smiled as she transferred it to one of her own pockets.

They gave each other a final awkward nod before she set out into the growing night.

“Fenedhis lasa,” she hissed as the wind bit into her exposed ears. As she wrestled it for her hood she couldn’t help but turn back to the cabin, but the door had already been shut.