#also my wrists are starting to ache and stiffen up just from typing this post so...

[halogalopaghost]

So not to bring down the energy, I'm not being depressed or tryna start shit, but how do you find the will to do things when

1: you know it will cause you pain

2: you know it CAN go undone (vacuuming, dishes, going to the post office, etc etc etc)

3: you will have to battle the demons of lightheadedness, nausea, and spotty vision every time you stand up

Cuz like...so my pain stopped being my primary symptom after I stopped working. I still have pain, but it's manageable and even ignorable most of the time now! However. My tummyache disease is worse and the fatigue has...not improved.

So like, CAN I sweep the floor? YES, BUT. I will have to battle the inherent, deeply rooted desire to Lay The Fuck Down the whole time I'm doing it, and I WILL feel like shit the day after. How...how am I supposed to do these things. Right now I'm just doing them when I get too bored to do anything else and that is NOT frequent enough lol

[wreckofawriter]

Magnolia Final Part

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Mentions of blood and death

Summary: idk dude just read the other chapters first or this is gonna make no sense

A/n: I did this instead of studying for my finals, also it could probably use a neither round of editing but I was anxious to post it. And I really don't give a fuck if this is historically inacurate all research done for this was from Pirate of the Caribbean.

Part 1 Part 2

♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

You considered the stars your friends, their predictability and reserve made them easy to get along with. You had been taught to read their language from your early days of ships and oceans. As a child, you would speak to them, whispering secrets from your bedroom window. Your young nights had been filled with time spent stretching from the top of your magnolia tree to try and grasp their beauty. Even now as you stared up at the heavens you wished to cradle them like priceless jewels, their wonder never faded. But you supposed their mystery is what made them so appealing, everyone wanted something they could never quite reach.

The news of your captured prince had spread like fire in a dry wind, the letters you had sent to Aldir and their neighboring kingdoms throwing many into action. Sirius’s kingdom was large, powerful, and merciless. Some wanted the prince for leverage, many others wanted blood; revenge driving them to empty treasuries and sharpen swords. At first, you had been sitting pretty, letters of bids coming to you at every stop you made. Eventually, prices got too high and kingdoms decided it would be easier to take than to pay.

Ash burned in the back of your throat, you stared at your feet as the second ship that week crumbled into the ocean. Its flames were heavy on your back, reflecting in the greys of the sea. A particularly large crack of the fire made the breath catch in your throat. Your fear of the element had persisted for years filling your nightmares with smoke and screams. 

As the distance between you and the defeated ship lengthened your heart began to calm. The air was thick with moisture, purple clouds bruising the dull sky. The ocean was frothy, waves lapping tirelessly at the sides of your ship.

Your mind felt dizzy, the taste of blood still thick in your mouth. Two more men had been lost in the fight which had taken place just minutes ago. One flung into the ocean and the other struck by a bullet. That was six bodies that you had been forced to dump into the sea the past month. 

You had to get rid of Sirius before more corpses were to be fed to the sharks. This had never been so strikingly obvious before yet, you hesitated. Nails dug into your palms, the voices in your head fighting a clamoring war. Your feelings were illegible, their messy colors smeared together in an uninterpretable painting. So you threw them away, ignoring the throb in your chest and taking a breath. Sirius was to be sold to the highest bidder and that was that. You felt your past’s grip on your throat loosening. There was only one way to get rid of what used to be, you had to kill it. 

   

Sirius had never been so bewildered before. His life had been a book that was written a thousand times over. The prince falls in love, the queen doesn’t approve, the love runs off, the prince finds the love, and then happily ever after. But life wasn’t as sweet nor simple as a children’s story and this may be the first time that he had ever truly realized that. All it took was the prince to be tied in the love’s basement ready to be sold to his death. 

Sirius woke with a start as metal clattered inches from his face. His heart pounded loudly in his ears as his breath slowly returned to his lungs. He stared at the plate which had woken him, it was piled higher than normal with two rolls dropped next to it. He peered up at the giver of this gift.

He recognized the small blonde as the one he had threatened a few weeks before, the fear he had seen in her eyes that moment now replaced with pity, bitter and soft like rotten fruit. 

“I wanna talk.” She said plainly, toeing the plate towards him like a bribe, he supposed that’s exactly what it was. 

Sirius sat up ignoring the hammer of his head. His hair stuck to his cheek, slick with sweat. The woman whose name he never learned dropped to a squat beside him, a small knife held in her hand. His eyes widened as it glinted in the small gas lamp hanging above his head. 

“Relax.” She sighed cutting the rope that tethered his hands behind his back. 

Sirius felt his shoulders groan in protest as they fell forward, his wrists aching and rubbed red. Hot pin pricks filled his fingers as he clenched and unclenched his fists. 

When he looked back up Adrie was now seated in front of him, her legs crossed. She glanced down at the food and then back up at him, “You can eat if you agree to answer some questions.” Her demands were simple. 

He let silence settle for just a moment, “Fine.” After all, what did he have to lose? His dignity? His pride? They had been sleeping with the fishes for ages. 

She pushed the plate towards him, watching him quietly as he began to eat, “You don’t look like much of a prince to me.” She hummed after a moment.

Sirius swallowed, licking his lips, “Does anyone after two weeks locked in the bottom of a ship full of scum?"

Adrie cracked a smile, “I suppose not.” 

She stared at him still, she was lying a bit. Years held prisoner couldn’t erase the royalty he was raised with, it stuck to him like wet stuck to water. Nothing and everything proved him a prince, you could take his crown but you could never take his title.

“How do you know y/n?”

Sirius was startled by the suddenness of the question but not remotely surprised it was asked, “She hasn’t told you?” 

“I wouldn’t be asking if she had,” Adire responded, her tone was blunt. 

He bit into a roll thoughtfully taking his time to chew slowly, she was patient, her blank expression, not faltering.

“I thought you were friends.” He mumbled with a full mouth. 

Her jaw tightened, “Y/n doesn’t speak of her past.”

“So you’ve come to me for information?” Sirius said mild mockery in his voice.

“Obviously.”

He eyed the woman curiously, she was not what he had expected of your right hand man. Sirius smiled loosely, “You sure you wanna disobey Captain’s orders?” 

“Start talking or I take the food and hang you by your ankles.” 

Sirius huffed glancing between her and his food, “Fine, you win.” 

“Good. Tell me everything.” She demanded.

Sirius felt his throat tighten around the potatoes he had swallowed, his mind ached with hazy memories of summer days and speeding hearts, “There isn’t much to tell.” 

“You’re a bad lair.” Adire hummed. 

Sirius sighed, eyes falling to the bright white scars which laced his hands. He wasn’t sure where else to start but the beginning. He told of a loud baker girl who snuck over the walls into his garden and brought him pastries and friendship. He continued with vague details, of growing up together with swords and stars, reliving each moment he shared. 

He felt his words stiffen as he spoke of falling in love with you. Part of him felt like he was talking of someone completely different. Someone who had burnt up with her parents in a small bakery a million miles away. What was left, muffling cries above him, was a shell of that girl her soul replaced with seaweed and smoke. He pushed the thought away, swallowing it with the lump in his throat as he continued to speak of a proposal he regretted and the consequences of disobeying his mother. 

The broken fairytale cut his tongue filling his mouth with a bitter taste. He attempted to wash it down with the rum his listener had brought to him but its flavor was just as bad, it's only redemption was the warmth that filled his stomach.

Adrie looked at him blankly, "I don't blame her for wanting you dead." 

Sirius wished she had stayed silent. 

"But I pity you, you don't deserve death." 

He didn't look up and instead finished his drink, "Your pity means nothing to me." 

She sighed standing to her feet, "I never thought it did." 

When her boots disappeared up the ladder he let his cup drop to the ground, it rolled knocking into his heel as tears dripped from his chin.

By the time you had dropped anchor just off of Haran, the moisture had dropped from the air. Dry winds and clear skies greeted your crew. 

Rowboats were dropped in the water quickly, the sun was setting fast and a night of cheap ale and cheaper women were in the forefront of many a man's heads. 

You were tired, the happiness of your crewmates falling short at your feet. Exhaustion had replaced all anger and sadness you had harbored for the past weeks making your eyes grow dull as the bags beneath them. The satchel burned under your arms had a note you had written agreeing to the Yerith King’s price. You had singed your finger on the wax used to seal the envelope, it still throbbed a bit with the unsteady beat of your heart. You tried not to think about much on your way to land instead filling your head with that faint burn and fog of the setting sun. 

Adrie watched as you played with the diamond strung around your neck, a new piece she had only seen in recent days. She assumed you had taken it from one of the ships which had recently burnt into the sea. The bright stone was so different from the rest of your jewelry she was surprised you wore it all. Obnoxious gems had never been your type.

She was wrong on this thought, large jewels used to be what you would stare at as you passed shop windows, wishing you had the money to clutch one in your hand. They used to be a dream and a wish, now they were just things you stole and sold to the highest bidder.

Sirius had been briefly told of the plans for the evening. Two men whom he had become somewhat accustomed to during his stay had tied him up. The knots were tighter than usual as they were to be gone for the night. In his usual nature, Sirius complained about the ache of his wrists and the cramps in his legs. His grievances went unheard and his company disappeared from sight. The boat was quiet within the hour, nothing but the creak of old boards and calls of gulls far above his head breaking the silence. 

He drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours, time passing in its usual way, slowly. Finally, a clear thought came to Sirius’s head, he had the whole boat to himself. That meant there was no one to stop him from escaping his certain and quickly approaching death. 

Sirius tried to twist his hands out of the rope for what must have been an hour and only resulted in drawing blood from his wrists. Switching tactics he began to slowly shuffle and roll around the cabin he was in, searching for anything that could cut rope. As the sun’s light began to fade his task was growing difficult. Just before he gave in to his exhaustion Sirius found a bent nail sticking about a centimeter out of the ladder that led to the upper deck. The next two hours were spent rubbing his binds against the dull metal until they finally snapped. 

    After a month of being held prisoner, freedom left him stunned. He stumbled up the ladder until he reached the ship’s deck. The warm breeze which washed over him felt like a gift from the gods. A smile stretched his aching cheeks and for the first time in a while Sirius Black let out a genuine laugh. 

He quickly found a small boat which he could lower to the water. He could be miles away before the sun rose and you found his binds cut. Judging by the port you had stopped at he was only a few days' row from neutral lands. There he could gather himself and write for help. He was saved.

Sirius’s glee was cut short as he realized that he was missing one vital thing; you. The only reason he was out here in the first place was for you. He had spent years following rumors across the sea, he had given up his place as king, he had spent hundreds of thousands on supplies. But the truth was even if he hadn’t done all that, even if he had stumbled across you within a week and spent no more than ten doubloons he still wouldn’t leave this ship alive unless you were by his side. 

Sirius cursed, slamming his fist into the deck. His eyes darted around in what felt like panic. He was trapped between your love and his life and while he had chosen the former weeks ago he had no way of securing it. 

In the dark, a glint of light was seen. A crate of liquor stowed next to the captain’s quarters revealed itself to the pale moon. The man's mind buzzed, he realized quickly that he would need to act fast, the hours of the dark he had left must be well used. 

The deal had been easy, one glance at the large gem and you had a buyer offering hundreds. You walked away with 400 doubloons knowing it was worth much more. Not that you cared, you had been hours from chucking the necklace into the sea. 

It was late at night now, the golden light of pubs and brothels spilling onto the gravel road you walked. Your legs still felt weak, they were accustomed to the sway of boats on sloshing waves not the strange sturdiness of the ground. You hadn’t been able to sleep well on land since you had stepped off it, you had always opted for a swinging hammock over a still cot. 

You swung your bag of coins round in circles as you made your way to the beach. The water was smooth save the ripple of waves drawn by the full moon. Sand glistened silver under your boots, the light crash of water on rocks echoing around you. 

You had never intended to spend the full night on land, your crew was well aware of this fact and none would be surprised to find you gone in the morning. You shoved one of your beached row boats back into the water, splashing about ankle deep before leaping into it. 

When you reached your ship, you sensed something was wrong immediately. The small voice which you tended to ignore was screaming in the back of your head. As you climbed onto the deck the strong scent of liquor overwhelmed you. You heard a soft splash and glanced down to look at the puddle you had stepped into. Swiping two fingers through the fluid and plopping them into your mouth you hummed. There was no mistaking the sharp taste of gin. You looked around to find the leak and instead locked eyes with a figure who stood about 20 meters in front of you. 

“Sirius?” You asked though you already knew it was him, you didn’t think you would ever forget his face, even if it was obscured by the shadows of the moon. 

He gapped at you, unsure of what to say.

You took a step closer and caught a glance of the bottle he held in his hand. Its thin neck was stuffed with a piece of cloth, the soft glow of a gas lamp flickering behind him. The second you realized what he had planned your gun was pointed at his chest.

“Drop the bottle Black.” you hissed with a steady voice despite the fact that your gun was rattling in your hands. Your thoughts were now fogged with fear, plagued by smoke and flames.

Sirius had suddenly found his voice, “I know you’re not stupid enough to fire that. One spark and we’ll both go up in flames.”

Your breaths quickened, vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes. “Why are you doing this?” You croaked. “Why do you want to ruin everything I’ve built for myself?”

“I’m not leaving without you y/n.” He shouted, “I can’t live without you. Just come with me. Please. Just come with me and it will all be fine.” 

You shook your head, “No.”

“Please, please! I need you y/n, I can’t go back without you!” He begged, snatching the lamp from behind him, “I won’t be able to live.”

It was in that moment that you understood he was just as desperate as you, just as lost and hopeless. You dropped your gun to your side, tears sliding slowly down your cheeks. Your throat tightened holding back a sob, “Okay.” You said with a broken voice.

Sirius cracked a small smile, “I knew it.” He sighed, “I knew you still loved me.” Setting down the lamp he opened his arms walking towards you. You met him halfway burying your face into his rough jacket.

“God I missed you y/n,” he whispered as you slipped a knife from under your sleeve.

“I’m so sorry Siri.” You mumbled in response before plunging the blade into his back. 

You held him as he collapsed forward, choking back on his own blood. You had begun to sob, hand still clutching the hilt of the blade which was lodged into him. Eventually his weight became too much to bear and you both fell to the ground. Sirius rolled off next to you, his hand still clasped around your own. The two of you started up at the stars listening as his breaths slowed. Just before they stopped completely you felt a small squeeze of your hand and for just a moment you saw the soft pink of a petal floating towards you.

You weren't sure how long you lay there, staring up at the sky but it was long enough for you to finally realize that you were the villain of your story. It was an odd thing to recognize considering in all of the books you had carried as a child you took the place of the protagonist; the one who swung the sword to save the kingdom You had always been the one to end your life with a happily ever after. 

Now you had realized that you had never been a hero. You had spent your life as a villain in the making, each step you had taken leading you closer and closer to your undeniable fate of evil. You had your chance to be the princess trapped in the tower, but you had ignored the prince and now took the shape of a witch. A witch who stole and killed and burned all that she hated. Some had to do it after all, we can’t all be heroes. There is no story without a villain, at least not one worth reading.

As much as the small baker girl who rested amongst the magnolia tree would have hated you, the woman you saw when you looked in the mirror was okay with who you had become. And if she was okay with it, then why did it matter what the past would have thought? You had been running from it for years and now you would never have to again. Because now your past ran from you. 

taglist:

@april-showers-and-flowers @fleurmoon @chaosinparadise @re-zerohora @pregnant-piggy @approved-by-dentists @theweirdobella @fific7 @whitewashedghanianlol @artemis1orion @justmesadgirl @bberree @songforhema @wangmangagavroche @evyiione @atomicpunkrock @fairywriter-oracle @moon-zodiac @secretsofageek @accio-rogers-blog @roslea @k3nz-doodl3 @theseuscmander @sleepingalaska @chloe-geoghegan1 @obsessedwithrandomthings-blog @coldlilheart @suseptiable-bur-siriusexual @inglorious-imagines @the-natureofme @trickylittlewitch @layaa-layaaa @teheharrypotter @sarcasticallywitty15 @rosieweasleyy @dracosgoodgirl @inglourious-imagines

so many of u changed ur urls so if I have the wrong person tagged or the wrong username let me know

Masterlist

[paulfwesley]

A Split Second (Part Four) [Bryce Lahela x f!MC]

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x f!MC (Dr. Claire King).

Chapter Rating: T.

Word Count: 3.3K.

Description: She might not know what her faith is, but someone reminds her how to hold on to it. TW: guns, violence, blood. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. 

Disclaimer: Characters, storyline, and parts of the dialogue are taken from Pixelberry’s Choices’ Open Heart. They fully own the characters, dialogue, backgrounds, etc. MC Claire King’s background is my own creation, based off of MC in-game’s personality.

Author’s Note: I’m sorry this took so long!! And I’m also sorry because there is one more part after this XD But that will be the last part, I promise!! This chapter took on a life of its own. Bryce isn’t in it, but it’s definitely something that I realized Claire needed in the development of this story. If you’d like to be tagged please let me know! I don’t count people liking the actual post because I don’t know if that’s you wanting to be tagged XD so be sure to comment and tell me!

Tagging: @commander-rahrah @jaydito-tjjd @anotherbeingsworld @shakespeareanwannabe @bitchloveskcbaseball @wisegirl9 @rookie-ramsey @mrsdrakewalkerblog @omgjasminesimone @frenchieswiftie @jamespotterthefirst @elladines @thanialis @lucy-268 @sherrylove @bloomingsivan @lahellacute @araihc-ce @ltimeisanillusionl 

Enjoy! 

Claire’s favourite time of the year was Christmas. She loved decorating her home, she loved watching Christmas movies, she loved giving gifts, really loved getting gifts. But despite her favourite holiday centering around the birth of the figure of the religion, she didn’t know if she could call herself a Christian. 

But that didn’t stop her from sitting in the back pew of the hospital’s multi faith room. It was a small place, roughly the size of the diagnostic team’s room, with three pews on either side of the room. She had expected for there to be a giant figure of Jesus painted in stained glass on the window, but because of the place being a multi faith room, they couldn’t. A tall podium sat at the front of the room, probably for when leaders of the faith came to speak to the people desperately seeking any kind of reprieve from the worry that plagued their every waking moment. 

Admittedly there were a lot of places Claire could have gone. The cafeteria, where she could have stress ate until Bryce’s surgery was over, but with G.S.Ws there was always the chance that complications could arise, and she wasn’t sure how much her poor stomach could handle, especially when she thought about eating anything her stomach clenched. 

She briefly considered a supply closet, but she could still remember the burning shame she felt when June found her there crying her eyes out at the news of Kyra’s relapse. It was too risky, especially because of the coming and going that arose with the need for supplies in there.

Then she thought about waiting it out in the resident lounge, but there she’d be surrounded by her friends. She’d have to talk with them, listen to them give reassurances that nothing would happen to Bryce, but Claire didn’t want to listen to empty promises. Her friends had seen her in bad states before: blood soaking her scrubs, exhaustion draining her face, the occasional stench that emitted off of her when she was so caught up in a case she forgot to shower. But she didn’t want them to see her like this: eyes bloodshot, nose red, tissue tucked into her sleeve for easy access when a rack of sobs hit her like a freight train. She just wanted to be somewhere she could shut her brain off. 

That was when her mind flashed to the multi faith room. It was always quiet in here, save for the odd sniffle or sob that came out of a person while they prayed for their husband to make it through the night, their sister to make it through her surgery, their grandfather’s diagnosis to be anything but what they feared the most. Otherwise, it was a place where people came to find some shred of peace. The silence was comfortable; it was a recognition that everyone in the small room was suffering somehow, but who found companionship with each other in the sense that they all sent their pleas to a guy sitting on a cloud in the sky. 

Tonight, though, the multi faith room was surprisingly empty. Someone had to have been in there earlier, because the collection of candles that sat on the table in front of the podium were lit, the flames of each individual candle small but creating a larger, stable symbol of hope. Each candle represented an unknown person, a life no one knew, a story untold, but every tiny wick created a sense of solidarity, the knowledge that someone was thinking of you, that this point in time, there was a place in the darkness where all hope was extinguished, but burning on as a deliberate point to prove that your life mattered, that it was being prayed for, that you were being fought for. An ember to glow with the reminder that someone wanted, needed you to stay.  

All the same, she chose the pew in the very back. She huddled against the armrest, tucking her knees under her and curling into the side as much as she could. She rested her joined hands under her head in the hopes that she would be less tempted to check the watch on her wrist and despair at how long the surgery was taking. She made Dr. Emery promise that she’d page her as soon as the surgery was over, but she didn’t know how long that would take, so Claire settled in for what could possibly be the longest night of her life. 

Her eyes hurt, her head aching with exhaustion now that all the adrenaline had flushed out of her system. She was still in the blood soaked clothes she had been in when she tried to cover Bryce’s wound, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up and change out of them. Instead she lay there, the high air conditioning blasting through her clothes and stiffening the material, chafing against her chest. Still she didn’t move. Her memories of Bryce paralyzed her. 

She relieved every single moment backwards right from the moment he had been whisked into the O.R. room all the way back to the first time she had seen him in the changing room on her first day in Edenbrook, when she had no idea who he’d become to her. Back then, he was just a meat headed jockey; someone fun to hook up with, but who Claire thought was the ‘no strings attached’ type, which was fine with her, because as each day passed she found herself more and more enamored with Ethan. But then Ethan left, and Bryce stepped up to help, and she finally started to see him in a new light. No, he wasn’t the type to buy you a drink at the bar, flirt with you just the right amount, laugh when he knew you wanted him to, knew just what to say to reel you in, and then go with you back to your place and then be gone without a word before you even woke up the next morning.

No. Bryce Lahela was the type to make terrible jokes. He talked during movies. He bought shots for his friends because he had heard they were going to compete against each other. He laughed at everything you said: your good jokes, your bad jokes, especially your terrible jokes, the ones you made because you knew only he would laugh at them. He’d bring you back to his place, lavish you, make you feel warm and loved and safe, and then the next morning he’d bring you breakfast in bed to share, even if it was just toaster waffles and he ate all of the strawberries even though you pleaded for him to spare you at least one. Bryce was safe. Bryce was loving. Bryce was home. 

And she didn’t know if he’d die not knowing how much she loved him. 

The idea twinged her chest, slowly spreading through her like a parasite, devouring all threads of hope and spitting out something that was ruined and beyond repair. She squeezed her eyes shut when she felt tears brimming, and she curled herself into a smaller ball, if that was even possible. It was as if she was hoping that the more she compressed herself, the more she’d be able to crush the pain that snaked her muscles. 

She faintly heard the doors to the chapel opening. The thought of sitting up crossed her mind, because she was technically in a place of worship and she really shouldn’t have her feet up in a pew, but then she thought that this was a place people came when they were desperate, when medicine and hopeful statistics and the comforting words of doctors weren’t enough for them. Those people who were in no place to judge how she dealt with her emotions. So she kept her eyes shut, drinking in a shuddery breath through her mouth. 

Movement in the chapel, footsteps echoing softly on the carpeted floor. The footsteps grew louder, and suddenly the seat next to her dipped with a weight of someone sitting down, the body heat of their dress pants brushing against her feet. She still kept her eyes shut, though. If someone needed her presence just to feel like they weren’t alone, so be it. 

“I’ve known you for a little over a year, yet I never knew you were religious,” the agonizingly familiar voice said and Claire’s eyes immediately snapped open. She dropped her feet to the ground and sat up, turning her head so her eyes met his soft blue ones. Ethan gave her an easy smile, the look you’d give a child to reassure them that a needle was nothing to be scared of. “You didn’t peg me for the type to be singing Christmas carols about Jesus.”

Claire sniffled, blinking heavily before finally turning to face the front. “I mean, I decorate a Christmas tree and I paint Easter eggs, but I don’t know about church every Sunday or not mixing certain types of cloth.” She tilted her head back, letting her neck rest on the back of the seat. “But when I needed a place to be by myself, to be quiet, to feel some sort of peace… this is where I ended up.”

Ethan stared at her. At the wrinkles around her eyes. The dryness of her nose that came with the repeated rubbing of tissues. The redness in her swollen cheeks. “Lahela’s still in surgery.” 

Her chest dipped. When she didn’t respond, Ethan continued. “That was the last update I could get from Harper. She’s the best. She’ll do what she can for Lahela. She--”

“I don’t need you to tell me what I already know, Ethan,” she cut in dryly. The words came out harsher than she intended. She always spoke cordially with Ethan, professionally, nicely even, considering that their split hadn’t really been… amicable. But now, tonight, she didn’t have the room to decipher the lingering tightness in her chest whenever she looked at him. Any emotions she felt tonight were for Bryce, the man she had only become certain of when she was on the verge of losing him. 

Ethan went silent. “Then what do you need?”

“Just distract me.” She turned her eyes to him without lifting her head. “How did you find me here?”

“Aurora Emery saw you in here,” he responded. “She didn’t want to disturb you, though. But when I ran into her and asked if she’d seen you, she told me.”

She wasn’t sure if she should murder Aurora or thank her. She didn’t necessarily want to see Ethan but… but even after all this time, she still associated him with comfort, especially when he wasn’t open about it, which wasn’t what she wanted. 

His leg bounced, his foot tapping against the floor. “The cops were looking for you. They wanted a statement.”

She cocked a brow. “And?”

“And I told them I didn’t know where you were,” Ethan answered. He gave her a once-over, taking in her frazzled appearance. “I figured after what happened, you wouldn’t be in the mood to really talk to anyone. Besides, Sienna had already filled us in on what had happened, but they wanted an eyewitness report.”

The corner of her lips turned up slightly. “Thanks for that.”

“I know this is probably a stupid question,” he started. “But are you okay?”

“Someone pointed a gun in my face today,” she hummed. She lifted her head and gave Ethan an incredulous look. “Would you be okay?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’m honestly surprised you’re as calm as you are.”

The anger she thought she had suppressed, that she hadn’t felt in months, flashed through her. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”

“Right,” he acknowledged, the word lingering in the awkward air she had created. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her arms over her chest, sinking back into the weathered cushion while ignoring the discomfort of the wooden top. 

After a few more silent seconds, Ethan finally said, “So… Lahela, huh?”

She didn’t even bother opening her eyes. A snort escaped her lips before she could stop it. “It’s a little late to play the jealous ex, don’t you think?” 

“No, I know,” Ethan quickly backtracked, his tone filled with alarm, but with a forlorn undertone that Claire only recognized because she was well versed in the language of Ethan Ramsey. “I just meant… he’s a good guy, if you had to pick someone.”

Claire couldn’t help but wonder if Ethan was trying to imply that he wasn’t a good guy, but she didn’t have the strength or energy to launch into that discussion. Instead, she said, “He is a good guy. The best, really. It just took me a while to see it.” Her shoulders deflated. “Too long, if I’m going to be honest.”

“I’m no stranger to feeling like you’ve waited too long,” Ethan said quietly. The words cut through Claire, though only deep enough to leave a superficial wound. “But I’m sure Lahela knows how you feel.”

“He doesn’t,” she retorted. She opened her eyes to see Ethan staring at her, confusion raising his brows. Claire pushed herself up so she sat properly. “He thought all he was to me was just a rebound. But he’s not. He’s everything to me. He makes me happy, feel warm, feel safe…” To her horror tears blurred her vision. She didn’t want to be the type of person that cried to her ex about her current boyfriend (though Claire wasn’t even sure that was who Bryce was to her) but here she was. Yet instead of making her feel awkward, Ethan just waited patiently, his face neutral, his eyes betraying none of the emotions she wondered he felt hearing her talk about someone else to him. He dipped his chin for her to continue, and encouraged, she did. She bit her lip to keep it from wobbling and sobbed, “But I couldn’t do the same for him. He got shot because of me.” 

Ethan put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Rookie, pull yourself together.”

That nickname. One she hadn’t heard since her final day as an intern, when he had accidentally let it slip before correcting himself with the reminder that she was no longer an intern. It was a nickname she had loathed when he gave it to her; it made her feel impossibly small and feeling like she had to live up to it. But over time she began to associate the challenge that came with the word rookie, the drive that made her want to work harder, the validation when she realized that at some point, the word had turned from a nickname that Ethan had given her because he hadn’t known her name to a name that she had built a positive reputation around. Claire King: the Rookie of the intern year of 2019. The best of the best, the woman who refused to let herself be broken. And now, with Ethan using it just now, those feelings came rushing back to her. 

She straightened her back and instinctively raised her chin, like she was poised to report a diagnosis or defend her actions. Ethan gave her an approving smile. “Bryce didn’t get shot because of you. If he did, it was because he loved you, and he would rather it be him in pain than you.”

“But I didn’t ask him to do that!” Claire sobbed, unable to contain the despair slugging through her veins. 

“You didn’t have to,” he pointed out. “The moment Bryce had seen that gun pointing at you, he had made up his mind.”

She gave him a look. “And how do you know that?” 

“Because if it were me, I would have made the same decision,” he revealed, 

The tension was so thick in the air around them it could have been cut clean through with a knife. “Ethan…” she breathed.

“I know,” he said, whispered. The words were so simple. Short, one syllable each. Yet they were heavy, wistful, filled with the joyous memories of a life that had been, haunted by the possibilities of a future that might have been. If she wasn’t Claire King, junior fellow on the diagnostic’s team. If he wasn’t Ethan Ramsey, the country’s best diagnostician, and the leader of the diagnostic’s team. It was a truth that went unsaid, the mournful melodies hidden by the words of a promising love song. Their love was one that was fleeting, never meant to thrive, never meant to see the light of day, never meant to go beyond the secret wishes that things were different. 

She darted her gaze away from him, focusing on the stain on the patch of carpet that she was praying was coffee. Ethan cleared his throat. “You can’t blame yourself for Bryce’s choices, or even for the gunman’s choices. All you can do is have faith that Harper is amazing at her job and that Lahela is strong enough to make it through the other side.”

She chuckled humourlessly, giving the empty space around her a long look. “Ethan Ramsey, I had no idea you were such a poet.”

Ethan snorted, and that launched the both of them into a fit of laughter, tears streaming down their cheeks and clutching their aching sides. They would finally sober up, but then one of them would break again, and then that would make them lose it again. 

The door to the chapels opened, and a short old lady took one step in and turned to find the source of laughter. When her disapproving gaze landed on Ethan and Claire, they both stopped laughing. Instead of stepping inside, the woman clicked her tongue in disbelief and shook her head in disgust before stepping out. Ethan and Claire looked at each other again before dissolving into another round of laughter. 

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Claire’s laughs ceased. She wiped at the corner of her eyes. “Thank you, Ethan,” she said. “I needed that.”

“Hey, I’m a doctor,” he offered, a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “It’s my job to make people feel better.”

A smile graced her face, while the ghost of one tugged on Ethan’s lips. It was a gesture of understanding between two people who had loved and lost, and who recognized that while ending things had been the right decision, they would always need each other in their lives. It was in that moment that Claire realized that she and Ethan had needed each other, but were never meant to end up together. In Ethan, Claire had found a mentor, someone who understood her passion and who recognized her talent, who could push her to be the best she could be. In Claire, Ethan had found someone he had been wandering for years without-- a true friend. Someone who listened without judgment, who offered solutions, who reminded you of what mattered in life, someone who was just there when they needed you to be. 

And in Bryce, Claire thought, she had found a true partner. In Bryce, she had found the person she was meant to end up with, who would swing their joined hands obnoxiously while they walked down the street while she apologized to passerbys but who did it because it brought a smile to her face. In Bryce, she found someone she knew she could count on to never run away. In Bryce, she had found her soulmate. 

Her pager buzzed. The vibration froze her, rendering her unable to move. With an encouraging nod from Ethan, Claire sucked in a steadying breath. She was ready. 

She pulled her pager out of her pocket. Looked down at the words that, regardless of what they were, would change her life forever. 

He made it.

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor bound - final chapter

Honor bound - 63 (it’s all my fault) - @badthingshappenbingo​

This is a series. Start here, continued from here. 

Red X is for posted, white X is for requested. 

AO3

Cw: blood, mention of death

The guard guided Vera and Tori through the winding hallways of the hospital. If Vera had to guess, it had once been an office building. Now there were x-ray apparatus along the walls, big rolling cabinets full of medical supplies strewn about, beds pushed into every available space. Every bed held at least one person. Vera shuddered and looked straight ahead. This is a war we’re fighting.

Tori was tucked securely under Vera’s arm. She was doing her best to walk upright, to conceal how badly she was hurt. She was trying so hard to breathe without wheezing, to pretend the sweat that beaded on her brow wasn’t there. She sagged against Vera’s side and prayed she wouldn’t notice.

She did. She pulled Tori closer, winding her arm under Tori’s shoulders and pulling her a little more upright. She tripped and stumbled into Vera’s grasp. Vera paused and searched her face, concern darkening her eyes. “You alright?”

Tori nodded weakly. “Just…need to sit down. Let’s get to them. Then I’ll sit down.”

Vera nodded and started moving again.

After a few more hallways, the guard reached a door with waiting room scrawled it in black spray paint. He pushed the door open and motioned them both inside.

Finn leapt to their feet as soon as they saw Vera come in. Everyone else was on their feet moments later. “Oh my…oh my god…Vera…you’re…”

“It’s not my blood,” she mumbled, passing Tori off to Ellis as they approached. They eased her down onto the couch. Isaac and Sam hovered behind Finn. Isaac looked deathly pale.

Finn’s hands jerked unconsciously towards Vera. “You…are you hurt? Where is this coming from?” Their hands settled in her hair, feeling along her scalp, not even noticing her trying to swat them away. “What happened?” Their hands moved to the back of her neck before she caught their wrists, guiding them off of her.

“I’m fine.” Her tone was hard. “I’m not hurt, Finn. Truly. I’m fine.”

Finn backed off, eyes still wide and raking her body for injuries. Isaac approached and laid a hand on her shoulder. “What happened, Vera? Whose blood is this?”

Her eyes flicked to Tori, collapsed on the couch. Ellis was rubbing their hand against her shoulder in awkward circles. “It’s…um…” She bit her lip. “Gavin’s father’s.”

Isaac blanched. “His…father? Why was his father there?”

Vera’s eyes were clouded with tears. She felt a rising tide of raw emotion threatening to drown her, to tear her apart. She trembled as Isaac brought his other hand to her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Because…because Gavin must have found out…” She pressed her face into her hands. “Because he’s the one who captured me fourteen years ago.”

She lost control. She dissolved into agonized sobs, each one feeling like it was taking a piece of her as it tore itself out. Isaac wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his chest as she wept bitterly. She clutched at him, shaking hard, throat aching. He rested his cheek against her hair and cradled the back of her neck.

“I never knew,” she sobbed. “I never thought I’d see him again, never thought he’d…he’d torture me again…he was going to make Tori hurt me…he was going to hurt us together…and…it’s all…my fault…” She gasped. “I was going to…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was going to kill her, Isaac…I was going to take her life, I wanted to save her, I just wanted to save her…” Her fingers tightened in his shirt, nails digging into his skin. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything. “He had me…he said two fucking words and they had me…I still had the gun and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t kill them…I watched them hurt her and I couldn’t stop them…”

“But you did,” he whispered. “You did. You got out. How did you get out, Vera? What did you do?”

“I…” She swallowed hard. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let them hurt her. I couldn’t…let them…hurt…me.” She crumbled in his arms, another sob aching through her chest. He guided her to another couch and wrapped his arms around her again. Sam sat on her other side and cuddled against her, their thumb moving back and forth against her arm. Tori watched them with tears streaming down her face. “I couldn’t do it again. I didn’t…I couldn’t. So I…I shot Gavin…”

“You what?” Isaac held her at arm’s length, his jaw falling open.

“I shot him…in the chest…and I…tore his father’s throat out.”

Sam’s voice was shaking. “…what?”

Vera gagged, the memory of the taste of blood on her tongue sweeping over her. “…with my teeth.”

Isaac froze, eyes wide and fixed on her. She closed her eyes, cringing away from the team’s looks. Now they all know. They all know I’m a monster. She shuddered, then stiffened in surprise as Isaac pulled her close again.

He pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered.

That undid her. She wailed into his chest, shaking with sobs, clutching desperately at his shirt as he ran his fingers gently through her hair.

“You beat him,” he whispered. “You found the strength and you beat him. You got away. Because of your strength, not anyone else’s. I’m so proud of you, Vera. He couldn’t destroy you. You saved yourself, and Tori.” He squeezed her tight. “You did that. And you killed Gavin. You ended that fight.”

She melted into his embrace. She felt Sam press gently against her back, then more hands on her. She looked up to see Finn and Ellis crouching beside her, faces warm and concerned. Tori sat beside Sam and draped her arm over their shoulders, resting her hand on Vera’s arm. A small sob broke from her lips.

“We love you, Vera,” Sam whispered. Their voice was small and scared and packed with conviction.

“What are you scared of, Vera?” Finn looked so earnest.

She bit her lip. “That you…that you think I’m a monster. You think I’m…dangerous.”

Isaac snorted. “We’re always known you were dangerous, Vera. But I’ve killed, too. For worse reasons. And honestly?” He guided her chin up with his hand. “If there’s any way he deserved to go, it’s like that. And there’s no one who deserved it more.”

She looked up at him desperately, clinging to the love and acceptance she saw there. She pulled her face out of his grasp and pressed it again into his chest. His shirt was wet with tears. He cradled her gently. For a moment no one spoke.

“H-how is Gray?” Tori’s voice was still raw from screaming.

Vera’s head snapped up. “Oh my god…I’m so sorry, I was…I’m sorry…how are they?”

Isaac blew out a slow breath. “Still in surgery. And…um…their blood bank has run out. They’re B neg, and we all got tested…except for Edrissa…” Vera’s gaze moved to the girl, almost forgotten in the corner. She was watching them all with wide eyes. Vera nodded, understanding. Isaac laughed bitterly. “Apparently B neg is one of the rarer ones. And…” He pointed to Finn. “O positive.” To Ellis. “O positive.” To Sam. “A positive.” He pointed to his own chest. “I’m B neg.” He shrugged weakly. “What are the odds?”

“Low,” Vera murmured. “Really low.”

Isaac shrugged again. “Well, I’ve given some blood. They’ve come by just about every hour to get more. But…I don’t know if they’ll be able to take much more.” He swallowed hard and Vera realized just how pale he was.

“I’m O neg.” She pulled up her sleeve. “Universal donor. They can take mine.”

Isaac nearly sagged in relief. “Thank god. I mean, I would give Gray all the blood I have, but…” He chuckled darkly. “Almost feels like there isn’t much left.”

Vera nodded gravely. “They can have mine.”

Tori spoke up. “I’m also A positive. I’m sorry…if I could…”

Vera squeezed her hand. “I know, Tori. And so does Gray.”

Isaac reached out and took both of their hands. “I’m just curious…how do you two know your blood types?”

Tori pressed her lips together. “I wanted to know in case anyone ever came to my house needing an emergency transfusion. So far no one has.”

Vera shrugged, her eyes distant. “We all got tested in academy. We had our blood type printed on the backs of our badges. It’s relevant information.” Isaac nodded. “So is that where we’re at? Just waiting for news?”

Isaac nodded. “Yeah. Just waiting now.”

Just then, the door opened. The nurse’s gaze found the team as they walked into the room, looking more tired than before. They were smiling.

The End

@untilthepainstarts​​​​​​​​​​, @womping-grounds​​​​​​​​​​, @blue-flare10​​​​​​​​​​, @free-2bmee​​​​​​​​​​​, @quirkykayleetam​​​​​​​​​​​, @walkingchemicalfire​​​​​​​​​​​, @inpainandsuffering​​​​​​​​​​​, @redwingedwhump​​​​​​​​​​​, @burtlederp​​​​​​​​​​​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​​​​​​​​​​, @insomniacscoprio​​​​​​​​​​​, @whumpy101​, @whumpywhumper​​​​​​​​, @stxck-fxck​​​​​​​, @omega-em-z-02

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Ten

I won’t break this streak of reading, but procrastination’s got different ideas at times. Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Break What They Love Point-of-View: Rikke

Rikke wriggled her shoulders further back among the knotted roots, up to her neck in the icy river and her hair full of dirt, listening to the warriors of her enemy trudge past on the path above. By the sound of it, there were a lot of the bastards. She wondered, yet again, what would happen if they caught her. When they caught her. She tried to make her breath come slow, come even, come quiet.

What with the grinding fear for herself, and the chafing worry for everyone she knew, and the niggling pain of a hundred little knocks and scratches, and the gnawing hunger and gripping cold, it all added up to quite the shittest afternoon she’d ever had, and that with some recent savage competition.

I partly wondered, from a narrative standpoint, why we had so much more Rikke chapters than anyone else in the first ten chapters, four compared to everyone else’s (besides Leo’s two) one chapter. From a character standpoint, they’re slowly acclimatizing Rikke to being more of a survivor, hardening her mind to the turmoils of losing her home and having to run, but I did wonder why her second and third chapters couldn’t have just been tightened into a larger single chapter. I liked them, to be clear, I just wondered the intent.

Now, it clicks better: it’s to get the reader to empathize with the passing grind of miserable days endured post-Uffrith’s burning. A continuity of shittiness and hunger and numbing chill, multiple chapters get across that better than shortening the amount of them. There’s the plot and character details to consider, of course, but in terms of choosing more than less chapters? I’d say it’s to show to the reader, on-page, how much crappy circumstances Rikke’s had to endure for her to have savage competition against this being the worst day.

And, boy, is Rikke scared, given the switch from “if” to “when” of catching her. There’s still a bit of softness and cold fear stuck in her, from a lifetime of being coddled. Isern might have talked about making her iron of a sword, but swords aren’t forged in a day or two. They take time, and Abercrombie’s quite good at making character development a messy path, full of pauses and set-backs.

She felt a fingertip under her jaw, pushing her mouth closed, and realised her teeth had started chattering. Isern was pressed against the bank beside her, river to her sharp chin and hair plastered to her frowning face, still as the earth, patient as the trees, hard as the stones. Her eyes rolled up from Rikke’s to the root-riddled overhang above, and she quietly slipped one finger from the water and over her scarred lips for quiet.

What I love about Abercrombie? That tightness of voice. Of course Rikke didn’t realize her teeth chattering, because we subconsciously can’t help or don’t acknowledge such actions when cold or scared. We’re unreliable bastards that way, and that’s why we need others to let us know the actions we won’t register in our consciousness.

“Shit,” came a voice, so loud it seemed in Rikke’s ear, and she startled, might’ve splashed from the bank on an instinct if Isern’s hand hadn’t clamped tight about her numb arm under the water.

And it seems Isern understands that a sword isn’t forged in a day too. I low-key wonder how much, realistically, that splash would’ve tipped off whoever was around, but, at the same time... the Dogman’s screwed up with stealth before.

And it just takes a moment’s bad luck. Just one.

“Shit… and…” A man’s voice, getting on in years but soft and slow, like he was in no hurry. “There we go.” A satisfied grunt, and a stream of faintly steaming piss came spattering into the water not a stride from Rikke’s face. Sad thing was, she was tempted to stick her head under it just for the warmth. 

Bwuhahaha, that’s disgusting, but at the same time, after days of hunger and freezing? Yeah, I can see how dignity takes a backseat to just easing long-setting discomfort for a moment. People can surrender many things, just for expediency. Pride, morals, humanity... just look at the first trilogy for examples.

Also... Clover? That “he was in no hurry” makes me think him, especially considering Stour’s patient as bulls contemporaries. Which... huh! The second time point-of-view characters crossed over in the same chapter, after Savine and Orso in A Little Public Hanging. Curious to see how he handles finding Rikke...

“There’s all kinds of pleasures in life,” came the voice, “but I’ve come to think there’s little better than a piss when you really need one.”

“Huh.” A woman’s voice this time, picking each word careful as a smith picks the nails for a rich man’s horseshoes. “Not sure whether I’ve more respect for you or less following that little revelation.”

“It’s getting to the point…” The stream stopped, then started up again. “Where I sometimes hold on to it… so when I do go…” A few more little squirts. “It feels better than ever. How goes the noble clash of arms?”

Okay, yeah, definitely Clover and Wonderful, they’re the only ones with that kind of dynamic so far. 

Also, not to be too crude... but relatable, Clover, you disgusting bastard. Hey, better than worshiping the pleasure of burning houses, eh, Wonderful?

“Union are pulling back as fast as they can. Some skirmishes but there’s no real fight in ’em. No sign o’ the Dogman’s boys. Running, I reckon.”

“Suits me well enough,” said the man. “Any luck, they’ll run all the way back to Angland and we can all have a lie down.”

Rikke glanced over at Isern. She’d been right. She always was bloody right, specially when it came to disheartening predictions.

Not surprising, but, Clover, you do realize Stour wants Angland too? If anything, it’s less a lie down you’ll get, and more besieging a capital with high walls and plenty of angry Union and Dogman’s men behind them. And, given the North doesn’t have a navy, Angland can probably hole up quite a while, given their port.

Unless you mean the siege itself would be the lie down, which, ya shit.

That morning they’d come upon a clearing full of corpses. A dozen or more. Men from both sides, all on the same side now. They say the Great Leveller settles all differences. Rikke had stared at those bodies, her wrist against her mouth, her breath crawling. Then she’d seen Isern, squatting over the dead like a corpse-eater from the songs, plucking at torn clothes, fiddling with buckles.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for anything we can eat.”

And Rikke had set to searching herself. Trying not to look at their faces as she rooted through pockets with numb fingers. Isern had been right about that, too. Your fear, your guilt, your disgust, they all vanish once you get hungry enough. The thing that really upset her as they crept away from the dead was that they hadn’t found anything.

From just wanting a bit more food way back in Guilt Is a Luxury than her companion to now stealing from the dead, Rikke’s practically taking in the lesson of self-interest being reliable to one’s motives than higher-minded thoughts. Because, ultimately, the dead won’t complain here. It’s the living who have a host of worries, stomachs aching with hunger, who don’t want to join the dead.

“Chief!” someone roared up on the road. “Nightfall! The king-in-waiting!” And there was an approving clatter of weapons on shields.

Rikke stiffened under the water. Stiffened far as she could given she was near enough a block of ice already, and Isern pressed against her and whispered, hardly more’n a breath, “Shhhhhhhh…”

Oh, shit. (swallows)

“By the dead,” she heard the woman mutter above, and then, with forced good cheer, “Chief! How’s the day?”

“Bloodless so far, but it’s still early.” The voice of Stour Nightfall himself, then. A whining sort of voice for a famous warrior. Sounded like a boy on the edge of a tantrum. “They’re thin sauce, these Southerners, always trickling away. The Bloody-Nine had Rudd Threetrees to fight, and Black Dow, and Harding Grim and all the rest. How’s a man meant to win a great name without great enemies to weigh it against?”

A brief pause. “It’s a tester, all right,” said the woman.

The difference between Clover and Rikke’s look on Stour? Rikke’s more fully geared to think worse of Stour, given Uffrith’s burning, taking into account his “whining” sort of voice. Clover... well, he was certainly primed to think worse of Stour, given Calder and Wonderful’s words, but that’s cushioned a bit by the knowledge that Stour’s just the recent out of a shitty cycle of warrior cocks. 

Rikke doesn’t have that knowledge and that wouldn’t cushion away Uffrith’s fate. Not that it should, because, geez, Stour does sound the whiny type, wanting a big name to puff himself up, just like the Bloody-Nine did. All this does is strengthen my Stour = cut-price Bloody-Nine sentiment. Wonderful’s response is perfect sarcasm in that regard. I just imagine both she and Clover are rolling their eyes in their minds at Stour right now. 

I know I am.

Also, it’s nice that Finree’s plans are working accordingly!

“I’ve a task for you, Wonderful. There’s a girl out in these woods.” Rikke had a bad feeling in her stomach. Worse than the hunger, and she shrank against the bank like she could become one with the dirt. “I want her.”

A snorting chuckle from the enthusiastic pisser. “Well, who wouldn’t want a girl out in the woods?” There was a silence, like the jest had miscarried. Certainly Rikke wasn’t fucking laughing. “How do we tell this girl from another?”

“They say she’s got a twitchy way. She’ll have a gold ring through her nose, maybe a cross painted over her eye.”

Rikke touched the tip of her tongue to the ring through her nose and whispered, “Fuck.”

“She might have some witch of a hillwoman with her. That you can kill. But the girl we need alive.”

“Must be important,” said the woman called Wonderful.

Nightfall gave a little hooting giggle. “Well, there’s the thing. She’s the Dogman’s daughter.”

Hm? They weren’t already looking for Rikke? Or, is it... they know the approximate location of where she is now? Because, shit, there’s the active tension we’ve been missing in the past Rikke chapters. Whereas they were about Rikke getting into the survivalist mindset, this is the starting point of where she concretely realizes it’s survive or die. She has the voice of the enemy now.

“What happens if we catch her?”

An unhappy grunt. “Well, if my father gets her, I daresay he’ll ransom her back, dangle her as bait, use her to get his way when it comes to talking peace.” And Nightfall spat out the word like it tasted bad. “You know my father. Plans within plans.”

“Always been clever, Black Calder,” came the man’s voice.

Very Bethod with Rattleneck’s son, Calder. Cunning to use as leverage against the Dogman and the Union to getting back Uffrith and Angland. I doubt Rikke, by herself, has the traction to get back Angland, of course, but Uffrith... Dogman’s generally had a more decent heart than most, and I’m sure he’d consider it, at least.

Too bad that Stour—

“I see things different. How I see it, the way you break your enemy is you break what they love. Way I hear it, those old fools on the other side love that twitching bitch. Sort of a little mascot for ’em.” Rikke heard the smile in his voice. “So if I get hold of her, I’ll strip her, and whip her, and pull her teeth out, and maybe get some Thralls to fuck her, out between the lines where everyone can hear her squealing.” Bit of a silence, and Rikke heard her own breath coming ragged, and Isern’s hand tightening around her arm. “Or maybe I’d get my horse to fuck her. Or my dogs. Or… like, a pig, maybe?”

WHAT.

The older man sounded more than a touch disgusted. “How the hell would you do that?”

“There’s naught you can’t do if you’ve the imagination and the patience. Then I’ll bind her up in the trees with brambles where everyone can see, and cut the bloody cross in her, and put a bucket underneath to catch her guts, and send ’em to the other side.”

THE.

“What, her guts?”

“Aye, in a pretty box. Hardwood, nicely carved. With flowers, maybe. Or no! Herbs. So those old fools won’t smell what they’re getting till they open it.” And he gave a satisfied grunt, like he was talking about a nice fish he’d catch, or a nice meal he’d eat, or a nice sit on the porch he couldn’t wait to have at sunset. “Imagine the looks on their faces.” And he chuckled like her guts in a box would be quite the height of drollery.

“Fuck,” breathed Rikke.

FUCK.

HOLY SHIT, STOUR. What the ACTUAL FUCK?

1. My jaw legit dropped at this and I had to walk away from the text for a solid fifteen minutes. That’s how bad my immediate reaction was. 2. After that walk and thinking about it a little more... yeah, wow, this is going to put more fear into Rikke... or hatred. As Machiavelli say, it is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot have both, but avoid hatred at all costs, and this might tip Rikke into hatred. So. Congratulations, Stour, you might have just made a hard enemy without realizing it. 3. ... Stour Nightfall is actually kind of really... comically absurd, reading back? Like, really over-the-top pointless cruelty in a way that Abercrombie intended. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a clear-cut asshole and, regardless of sincerity, Rikke should have plenty of reason to fear him, but the “Or… like, a pig, maybe.” line makes me think he’s trying to escalate his plans in an attempt to be all imposing and full of blackness to Clover of all people. 4. If we continue the Bethod/Logen/Rattleneck and his son allusion, then there’s nothing of the cold, chilling nature of Made a Monster’s ending here. It’s just a child trying to play-act the Bloody-Nine and thinking that makes him a badass. Look, I know some people might take Stour full-on serious here and I get that, considering the sexual threats, but t’s just... sorry, really, I can’t entirely take it seriously. Especially when Abercrombie’s proven in the first trilogy he does not write such over-the-top threats and situations without taking the piss out of them. 5. Good that even Clover was disgusted by this. Should be taken as a given, but it’s good to know Stour disgusts even hardened Named Men. 6. For that matter, what’s Stour’s angle here? This is in private, only him, Wonderful, and Clover, and Wonderful’s likely already been treated to plenty of stories about Stour’s assholery. So, in all honesty, from a character standpoint, this feels like it’s mostly for Clover’s benefit. Stour already treats Clover with derision and like an old turd, so why does the ass-pup feel the need to impress Clover with how much of a BIG VIOLENT COCK WARRIOR he is? Maybe it is the lack of reverence from Clover that makes Stour push harder and escalate to get a positive reaction? Or maybe Stour just wants to imprint some fear into Clover, considering he’s the newest Named Man in his company? 7. Thinking through all of this, why are you such a disgusting dumbass, Stour.

“But that’s for later.” And Nightfall gave a disappointed sigh. “Can’t cook what you haven’t caught, can you? My father’s offering a big gild for her, that’s sure. Whoever brings her in’ll be a wealthy man.”

The woman called Wonderful sounded like she was hardly enjoying this any more than Rikke was. “Right y’are, Chief. We’ll be looking.”

Good thing about Rikke’s perspective? Even she has the good nature to know Stour’s “allies” don’t much enjoy the ass-pup like her. Though, that won’t really stop Wonderful from capturing her and giving her to Stour, will it.

Rikke heard soft footfalls moving away. Perhaps she should’ve been frozen with fear. The dead knew she’d a right to be. But what she felt instead was a boiling fury. A fury that warmed her through despite the icy water frothing to her chin. A fury that tempted her to slip from the stream with her knife between her teeth and cut the bloody cross in Stour Nightfall right then and there.

Rikke’s father had always told her vengeance was a waste of effort. That letting it go was the strong thing, the wise thing, the right thing. That blood only led to more blood. But his lessons seemed far away now, meant for a warmer place. She clenched her jaw, and narrowed her eyes, and swore to herself that if she lived out the week, she’d make it her business to see Stour Nightfall fucked by a pig.

Oh, oh.

You know, I’ve been low-key wondering which first trilogy comparison befitted Rikke in terms of being a refinement/evolution of an earlier character archetype and, while the Dogman or Logen were the easiest choices to pick, both of them the Northern perspectives in the first trilogy, I feel like the Logen comparison only holds up in terms of early chapter material similarities of cold-bitten survival and hardships, whereas the Dogman comparison held up decent enough, another Northerner who just wants to do the right thing... until now. Now, it clicks into place what first trilogy archetype Rikke’s refined from.

The first woman, burning with vengeance.

“What do you want, Ferro Maljinn?”

“What?”

“Why did you do that?” Yulwei pointed down at the dead man. “What do you want?”

“Vengeance.” She spat out the word.

—The Blade Itself, What Freedom Looks Like

 Rikke’s the most recent of vengeful women in the Circle of the World.

She curled her fingers round the cold grip, strange in her left hand, and slid a few inches of steel from the sheath. It shone bright and eager in the lamplight. Good steel bends, but never breaks. Good steel stays always sharp and ready. Good steel feels no pain, no pity and, above all, no remorse.

She felt herself smile. The first time in months. The first time since Gobba’s wire hissed tight around her neck.

Vengeance, then. 

—Best Served Cold, The Bone-Thief

But, if we’re talking in terms of backstory, the hardships, the suffering of diaspora at a young age from losing your home and those you loved?

The old man jerked his head at the woman, watching them suspiciously with her slanted yellow eyes. “She is from a place called Muntaz.”

“I never heard of it.”

“Why would you have?” The old man shrugged his bony shoulders. “A small country, by the sea, far to the east of Shaffa, beyond the mountains. The Gurkish conquered it years ago, and its people were scattered or made slaves. Apparently she has been in a foul mood ever since.” The woman scowled over at them, keeping one eye on the soldiers.

—The Blade Itself, Nobody’s Dog

Rikke, I posit, is Abercrombie’s second chance at writing Ferro, given far more dimensionality and given a greater sense of personhood pre-vengeance. Ferro was too tight-lipped about her losses and locked in her vengeful mindset to be that much more than a vessel of vengeance against Uthman-ul-Dosht and Khalul. She was also surprisingly passive in terms of the narrative, back then, being jerked around by Bayaz’s offer of vengeance against the Gurkish Empire and less an independent player on the board until after the first trilogy.

Rikke’s still young enough, just walking the first steps, to not be devoted to vengeance, to choose and seek out better paths, because as Ferro herself points out:

When the light of the fires and the sound of the talking had faded into the distance she stopped and dropped down on the hard ground. A cold wind blew up across the barren plain. It blew stinging dust in her face, but she hardly noticed. The hate and the fury were gone, for the time being, but they had left a hole, and she had nothing else to fill it with. She felt empty and cold and sick and alone. She hugged herself, rocking slowly back and forth, and closed her eyes. But the darkness held no comfort.

—The Blade Itself, What Freedom Looks Like

By the dead, I have no complaints about her wanting Stour dead, but... I hope she comes out of that, still human. Still having something inside her by vengeance’s end. 

That being said, I 100% hope and expect to get Ferro in this trilogy eventually!!! Just like Ardee and Terez, Ferro’s a female character given the short shrift, comparatively, who I will be fascinated at reading, if Abercrombie gives us.

“I’ll be honest, Wonderful,” came the man’s voice, the one called Clover, speaking soft like he was sharing a secret, “I’m finding that bastard increasingly troubling.”

“Aye, I know.”

“Took it for an act at first, but I’m starting to think he’s everything he pretends to be.”

“Aye, I know.”

“Guts in a box? With herbs?”

“Aye, I know.”

“He’ll be king one o’ these days, will guts-in-a-box over yonder. King o’ the Northmen. Him.”

A long pause, then a weary grunt. “It’s a thing no right-thinking person could look forward to.”

I’m... of two minds here. I’m not sure Stour’s everything he pretends to be, not all his reputation is, but I definitely agree that there’s an vicious and awful person in him, regardless. This isn’t a decent man pretending to be a bad man for fear or reputation’s sake, like the typical trope demands and like Bethod and Calder had to act. This is a bad man pretending to be worse. Stour carving out his own path, out of the stale and well-trodden roads of the ghosts of the first trilogy.

Also, when you put it like that, this strikes me of like how the North reacted to King Logen, way back in Last Argument of Kings. Fear of what was to come out of that station and reality. And it really says something that Clover and Wonderful, two Named People who’ve lived through three Kings of the North, talk of Stour’s upcoming reign as something that strikes as worse than Black Dow or potentially the Bloody-Nine’s reign.

Rikke could only agree. She thought she saw a hint of their reflections, dancing among the black branches in the water.

“You see something down there?”

(Throat tightens) After Stour’s threats? Oh god no.

She stiffened, numb fingers curling tight around the grip of her knife. She saw the jaw muscles clench on the side of Isern’s face, blade of her spear sliding from the water, smeared with pitch so it wouldn’t catch the light.

“What? Fish?”

“Aye. Worth getting my rod, d’you think?”

The sound of Wonderful hawking up, then a glob of phlegm came spinning over from above and plopped into the water. “Nothing in this stream worth catching, I reckon.”

(Breath of relief) Live to survive another day, Rikke! Though, I’ll admit, I wonder what would’ve happened if Clover and Wonderful found out Rikke? Would they let her go, considering they’re not particularly enjoying the graces of Prince Ass-Pup? Or would they have captured her, thinking it not much of a weight on their consciences compared to their own lives? I’m not sure I’d like the answer to that question...

As a chapter, this is one hell of a turning point, important to the plot and characterization. It’s the accumulation of all of Rikke’s chapters in the woods, digging through corpses’ pockets and freezing so hard she feels like ice, hiding from Stour’s men. But, from there, the crux of the chapter of the Stour material, which... as disgusted and grossed-out as I was at first impression, strikes me as dearly overcompensating in hindsight, for some reason. But he makes a turning point in Rikke’s narrative, where she goes from just wanting to survive and be safe from his men, to having the more visceral motive of vengeance against Stour after his words. It’s a worrying turn, to say the least, especially given the Ferro connection, but after the circumstances she’s endured... can’t much blame her. The chapter also sets up a point of discontent between Stour and the rest of the Northmen and how much his over-the-top cruelty could turn off his allies, which, given Rikke’s from the North too and his enemy... could prove interesting.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment Chapter Ten: Break What They Love

[ptw30]

Stunning art by @xblackpaladin

Fic: Broken Blade - Part One/Part Two/Part Three/Part Four

A part of the Blade!Shiro series

Summary: Shiro learns the cost of awakening a blade. 

Author’s Notes: Please see this post for triggers and warnings. 

Pre-Voltron

The inky, black void of the cosmos reminded Shiro of a siren, its brilliant stars and majesty beauty luring him into its unfathomable depth. He struggled against its beckon and feared what would happened if he surrendered completely. Would he cease to exist, or would you finally become what the universe professed? And whatever that was, would it be worth the cost?

Shiro didn’t think he wanted to find out. Instead, he huddled upon the couch of his treehouse, staring at the viewer screen upon the far wall and trying to lose himself in the natural beauty of the cosmos. When the door opened behind him, the flash of light projected the silhouette of a tall but lithe frame, and without turning, Shiro knew to whom it belonged.

He waited until Kolivan came to stand behind him, his proximity a gift in its own right, yet Shiro still couldn’t raise his voice louder than a whisper. “…I don’t understand. I barely knew him.”

Kolivan’s heavy claw rested in the crux of Shiro’s shoulder, his thumb brushing along the younger blade’s nape. “There is no great mystery, Taka. Sanrik wished to protect you, so he did.”

“But why?” Shiro threw his arms wide; his legs dropped to the floor. “We spoke a few times over the annuals. We went on maybe a handful of missions together. That’s no reason for him to give his life for me.”

“He gave his life for the Blade, not specifically for you.”

Shiro shot to his feet and spun to confront Kolivan, ignoring the tears that stung his eyes. “It was my mission. That blast was meant for me.”

“And he stepped in front of it.”

“That – That makes no sense. The mission’s most important, not me. Maybe because I’m a paladin? He thought he should give is life for – ”

“Stop,” Kolivan growled, hands tight, eyes furious. “No one but the pack knows you are a member of the Voltron Force. It would be too dangerous for anyone else to carry that knowledge.”

“But then why – ”

Kolivan appeared at a loss, hands rising open and encouraging, though a tiny tremble stole Shiro’s breath. “I thought we made progress. I thought you finally understood.”

“Understood what?”

“You are worth the sacrifice, Taka.”

Shiro couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t believe that his life meant more to Sanrik or that he deserved to be standing there instead of his fellow blade. He should have taken that hit. After all, he was the Son of the Blade and the field commander of that mission. If anyone should have not returned to the base, it should have been he.

Kolivan came about the couch to clasp Shiro’s shoulders. Shiro wanted to remain strong, wanted to fight the tears threatening to overtake him, but he eventually lost the battle, collapsing into Kolivan’s cradling embrace. Though he’d lost warriors in battle before, none had actually sacrificed themselves for Shiro.

Except Moira.

Thoughts of his stepmother made Shiro wince, and when he pulled away from Kolivan’s chest, the leader let him.

“Kolivan, you – you’ve spoken to my mom, right?”

Kolivan studied him before relenting with a hesitant nod. “A few times over the years. Why do you ask?”

“If she’s part of the Blade, why doesn’t she ever come to the headquarters?” It had been more than a decafeeb since he’d last saw her, and after his last mission, he wanted to see her one more time, in case… “Ulaz and Thace have positions in the empire, too, but they come back all the time.”

If anything, his question seemed to upset Kolivan, whose expression hardened again. “Your mother is not welcome here anymore. She is no longer part of the Blade.”

Shiro stiffened. “What! Why?”

Kolivan’s glower remained neutral, and his face gave away none of the truth. “I do not believe now is the time to discuss this issue.”

“Are you kidding me?” Shiro snorted. “I’ve known you for seven annuals! You never thought to tell me in all that time that my mom –”

Kolivan’s voice remained steady, as if he forced the truth from his lips, “When another awakens a Blade, it is a sign that the bond of secrecy and trust has been broken. The original member is no longer welcome among us.”

Shiro silenced. It was his fault his mother was no longer a member of the Blades? Because he awakened her blade, she could no longer return to place she’d called home?

Kolivan refused to allow him to suffer. “Moira gave you her blade because she wanted this for you, Takashi. She wanted you to join the fight alongside us, so do not mourn her loss. Instead, honor her sacrifice by carrying on, by fighting the Galra as one of us.”

Shiro wanted to listen to Kolivan and believe him, but he couldn’t, not with the weight of the blade against his back and the searing ache deep within his chest. Now, he cried not for one loss but for two.

 Post Zarkon Command System Attack

The campfire brightened the small area of the desert planet and afforded the gasping Shiro just enough light to make out his brother's worries features. Shiro wished he could ease Keith's fears, but the burning, glowing wound upon his torso worsened by the moment. If Coran and Allura didn't find them soon, Shiro held no doubts about his eventual end.

"Keith...if I don't make it out of here - "

"Don't talk like that,” Keith snapped. “You're going to make it."

"...I want you to lead Vol - "

"No!” Keith lunged to grip Shiro by the shoulders but stopped when Shiro flinched and hissed. “You’re bonded with the Black Lion. It chose you to lead us – "

"I know, Keith." Ancients, why couldn't his little brother just accept the truth for what it was? "But I'm not going to make it out of this – "

"You made it out of Drule Central, and you survived a year in the empire."

"Keith, please…this isn’t the same thing."

"Kolivan chose you to be his successor, and he wouldn't have done that – "

"He did it because he didn't want me to be a paladin. He wanted to give me another option – "

"Is that why we haven't gone home since you escaped?" Keith asked, those amber eyes wide, eyebrows lifted.  “Because you chose to be a paladin over the Blade – ”

He couldn’t do this now. “No, Keith. Look. Gasp! What happened between Kolivan and me – it doesn’t have anything to do Gasp! with – ”

“You didn’t see him, Takashi,” Keith pressed. “The way he came back to the headquarters. The way he refused to speak to anyone about it, even me and Antok. He just –”

Not. Now. "Keith!" Shiro's side burned, and he hissed every word through clenched teeth. "...it's not like I don't want to go home...it's just...” Ancients, it hurt to admit. “I'm – I’m not sure I’d be welcome if I did."

Keith's tail fell limp; his ears twitched. "What do you mean?"

Gasp! "...I cost Ulaz his position in the empire, and...I – I compromised the Blades' mission. No other member in its last ten thousand years has caused so much damage to its agenda."

"But you also helped us find Voltron,” Keith said. “You helped free the Balmera, and behind you, we're going to defeat Zarkon."

"...If I live that long."

Keith's tail slithered about Shiro's wrist and tightened in wordless comfort.

They sat like that for a long time, the campfire crackling and casting shadows upon the barren landscape. Shiro tipped his head back against the rock, inhaling through his mouth as his wound stung something fierce. Keith sat by his side the entire time, tail never wavering in its strength, eyes continuously watching him, and though Shiro hated to think it, he could die here, having saved Allura and knowing his little brother would live. He’d done his part, brought Voltron together and readied the Paladins to fight for the universe. The rest was up to them.

Keith would have nothing of it. "Look, I promise to take over as team leader – though you’re going to make it – ”

Shiro snorted and clutched his glowing alien wound.

“— if you promise once we get out of here, we'll go home."

Shit. When did his kid brother start drawing hard bargains? In the back of his mind, Black mewled in support of Keith’s decision, and Shiro found the energy to shoot back, Traitor.

Sucking in a deep breath, Shiro let out a pained, "Kid – "

"No.” Keith refused to be dismissed. “We don’t have to fight this war alone, Takashi. You know that. We wouldn't have escaped Zarkon's Central Command if Thace hadn't stepped in."

"We don't know it was Thace."

"You know it was."

Damnit, he did.

"Takashi." The tail tightened about his wrist, frightened, pleading. "We can’t fight this war alone."

And they couldn't. Keith was right, no matter how much Shiro didn't want to admit it.

With a shuddering hand, Shiro petted the warm curl of his brother’s tail as he sighed. It didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t like he was ever going to have to face Kolivan again.

"Fine, fine,” he relented. “If the team saves us, we'll make our next mission to rendezvous with Ulaz. We'll see if he's talked to Kolivan and if the Blade is willing to accept our assistance. In return, you have to promise to watch over Black and the team if I don’t make it out. Deal?"

Keith shifted a bit closer, though his tail remained a constant warmth upon Shiro's arm. "You’re getting off this planet if I have drag your sorry tail, but...deal."

Of course, that was the moment a wormhole exploded in the clouds, and the Green Lion soared through.

Quiznak.

“I do not like this,” Allura affirmed, less than two days later after Shiro emerged from the cyropod. “The Galra – they are not to be trusted.”

“Your father must have trusted them once,” Shiro insisted, typing coordinates he knew by heart into the computer. “Zarkon was the original Black Paladin.”

Lance started. “Wait. What?”

Allura’s shoulders tense as she reared back, mouth agape, though Keith interjected for her, “Didn’t you see how Zarkon stole the Black Lion right out from underneath Takashi or how he could do all that cool stuff with his bayard? Takashi’s bayard? You know, the black one?”

“I wanted to save you from the dark history of the paladins, so you could have a chance to bond with your lions on your – wait a tick.” Allura’s eyes narrowed in an accusatory glare. “You knew Zarkon was the original Black Paladin.”

Takashi didn’t need to turn to know her eyes bore into the back of his head. “Yes. It is why we must meet up with the Blade of Marmora. We can’t win this war alone.”

This time, Allura remained silent. He was, after all, right. (Thanks, Keith.)

“Besides, you said you wanted me to show you the Galrans you remember, the same people who inhabited Daibazaal all those years ago. Allow me to do that now.”

For a long moment, Allura debated, her stern glare never wavering as she glowered at Shiro. Then, her eyes flicked to Keith, as if to remind Shiro she’d already met a Galran who represented the old planet, but she refrained. Instead, she let out a brief sigh and straightened her shoulders.

“Shiro – the Galra, they’ve done…terrible things. They took my family, but in time, I’ve grown to see you and the Paladins as my family now. I – I cannot let anything happen to any one of you, and trusting the Galra again – it is unconscionable.”

“But you trust me.” Perhaps he should have phrased it as a question, but it wasn’t one.

Though it was slow in coming, Allura agreed with a nod.

“Then when I say I would die before I let anything happen to any member of our pride, know it’s the truth.” He motioned toward his shoulder and the inkling that lay underneath his long sleeve. “I cannot fathom what happened to you or Altea, but with the Blades’ help, perhaps we can stop Zarkon once and for all.”

Once he received approval from Allura, Coran brought the Castle of Lions to life. Lance came to his sister’s side, folding his fingers with hers, while Keith bookended her on the opposite hip, his tail encircling her trembling wrist. She smiled not at Lance but at Keith, brushing her fingers along the tuff of his tail.

Not even Allura’s cold disposition could survive the tender warmth of Keith’s adorable purrs.

Her hostile temperament returned, however, when the alarms went off on the bridge about a varga after the team arrived in the Thaldycon System.

“I knew it was a mistake coming here!” Allura bellowed as her hands swiped across the transparent screens, bringing up the castle’s cameras. “There is he! Level five.”

Shiro recognized the lithe build of the intruding Blade and fought against the emotions that threatened to constrict his voice. “Everyone, suit up!”

Shiro snagged Keith before they left the armory and made a quick plan. Ulaz would never suspect that Shiro would use his precious baby brother as a decoy, and if he only admitted it to himself, Shiro wanted to see just how far Keith had progressed in his Blade training. He was not disappointed.

Despite Lance, Hunk, and Pidge’s efforts, they were still untested in battle. The few victories they wedged out came from sheer luck and relentless perseverance, but neither would work against a trained operative like Ulaz.

Though Keith still couldn’t battle Ulaz to a standstill, he worked in tandem with Pidge and then continued to attack, refusing to give their pack member a moment of reprieve. His swift, continuous strikes distracted Ulaz enough to allow Shiro to sneak up behind the Blade, and though Ulaz noticed him almost immediately, the damage had been done.

One swift movement by both, and Shiro sucked in a swift inhale, Ulaz’s blade mere inches from his face. Shiro’s weaponized hand hovered just under his surrogate father’s chin.  

Shiro feared. Would Ulaz shun him? Did Kolivan explain to Ulaz what hadn’t known about Shiro’s capture? Would Ulaz hate him for surrendering, for giving into his status as a lower lifeform and mate to Sendak, rather than dying at the hands of the empire’s most powerful commander? Did he understand Shiro’s position now, an outsider who had lost the simple luxury of a place to call home?

But after a moment, Ulaz stepped back, dropping his weapon and dissolving his mask. The Galran’s calm but joyous smile dismissed all of Shiro’s misguided apprehension, and the Blade opened his arms in a welcoming gesture.

Before Shiro could fold into the circle of them, Allura slammed Ulaz against the wall with a single hand on Ulaz’s chest plate, her colossal strength impressive before and frightening now.

“Who are you?” she demanded, but Shiro instantly rushed to her side, hands up in a surrender position. “Stop! This is the Galran who saved Keith and me all those years ago in Drule Central.”

Despite Allura’s painful grip upon him, Ulaz’s eyes never diverted from Shiro’s gaze. “You’ve come,” he murmured.

They retired to the lounge for their discussion, Allura not wanting a Galran – any Galran – on the bridge of her ship. Shiro managed to convince Allura that Ulaz didn’t need to be restrained, only for Ulaz to mutter, “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

Shiro wiped a hand down his face. “Not helping.”

“Are your Galra threats supposed to win my trust?”

“I’m not trying to win your trust.” He already had Shiro’s and Keith’s. “I’m trying to win a war, and because of Shiro, we are closer than we ever have been.”

Keith’s tail knocked into Shiro’s side, and he wished he could feel the surge of pride that always came from Ulaz’s compliments. Instead, all he felt was cold dread. “Ulaz, do you think you could send a message to Kolivan? We need to find out if the Blade would be willing to form an alliance with us.”

Utter confusion swept across Ulaz’s expression. “I don’t understand your hesitation, Shiro. Why don’t you reach out to Kolivan directly?”

“I’m – I’m not quite sure if Kolivan would be willing to listen to any request I make. I’m hoping if the request comes from you, he might be more apt to –”

“Waitaminute!” Lance interrupted, hands falling to his hips. “Nononono. We did not come all the way out here to the middle of space nowhere just to speak with your space ninja mom because you’re afraid to call your space ninja dad!”

Shiro was the Black Paladin, the decisive head of Voltron. He needed to maintain a certain level of decorum in order to expect the other four paladins to listen to his  –

“Yup.” Keith thumbed his way. “Apparently, something happened between Takashi and Kolivan on the mission, and Takashi was captured by the empire – ”

“Keith!”

“What? It’s true.” He motioned toward Ulaz, eyes glimmering as he crossed his arms. “You did come all the way out here to speak with Ulaz because you’re afraid of Kolivan.”

“I’m not afraid, Keith.” Ancients, he didn’t want to talk about this now, especially in front of everyone.

“Then what did happen, Shiro?” Ulaz’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder, comforting and unnerving at the same time. “What has you refusing to speak to Kolivan or returning to the headquarters? It is your – ”

“ – it’s not my home, not anymore.” With a disparaging sigh, Shiro struggled to meet Ulaz’s gaze and ended up staring at the taller Galran’s shoulder. “It was my blade Keith awakened during his trials. I’m no longer a member of the Blade of Marmora.”

To Be Continued…

More from the Blade!Shiro series