#and every time we bow our heads lower our eyes wring our fingers and we do NOTHING

[kingsmoot]

this like. makes me wanna die lol. a northern army marches for lord eddard stark's girl. what about his steward's little girl? what about lady hornwood? what about the dozens of smallfolk chased through the woods on broken ankles and knocked down onto lashed backs? no? all just some girl?

[lordoftermites]

The Fox & the Thornbush | Part 3

Pairing: Roiben x Kaye Rating: M for violence and bleedy bits Summary: This is it. The Undersea Attack. Maybe eventually I'll go back and do more with it but. This took... a lot to write and honestly I can't even write a summary for it. I'm sorry in advance.

part 1. // part 2.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

Kaye hadn’t believed him then—or, more despairingly, she had believed him, and was just far too willful to listen.

Even after the coronation in Elfhame, when Balekin had slaughtered near to every member of the royal family in a coup to usurp the throne, Kaye had persisted. She left her coffee shop, her dreams, abandoned her life in the light of the mortal world to live with him in the damp darkness of the Palace of Termites.

For her sake, Roiben had tried to convince himself that it would be a good change. That it was true—he had grown weary of having to steal away like some thief in the night to see her so sparingly, only to come back to a cold bed under a cold hill, alone.

After a while he began to believe that, perhaps, now that Kaye was at his side, within his reach at all times, that the frigid ache in his chest would abate—that he could finally be content.

Perhaps faeries couldn’t speak a lie with their own mouths, but Roiben had been telling himself untruths for longer than he could remember.

Kaye rolls over onto her side, burrowing farther beneath the coverlet. Her wild hair splays in lush, green tangles over the pillow. She sleeps soundly, verdant lips parted, once in a while letting out a small sigh here or near-inaudible word there. Roiben watches her from his place on the bed—their bed, he reminds himself—as though if he were to look away, she might very well disappear with one of those sighs.

He’s been awake for hours now, ripped from yet another nightmare, his chest heaving, his stomach threatening to upend the acrid bile in the back of his throat, while morbid death stares burned behind his eyes. They were the spectres of his sins, reminding him the blood on his hands has not, and shall not, wash away.

At least, this time, there had been no screaming.

A lock of deep green hair lies across Kaye’s face. It flutters slightly when she exhales, only to fall back against her lips. Her nose crinkles in her sleep, disturbed and perhaps dreaming of something else. Roiben reaches to brush it away but stops himself short, his fingers hovering mid-air. He ought to let her just sleep, he knows.

Yet, before he can convince himself not to, he’s leaning down, brushing the hair back with his mouth instead.

Kaye stirs and makes a light, disgruntled noise, until she seems to realize what’s happening. Then she’s lazily kissing him back, pressing her lips against his, parting just enough for him to sweep her mouth. One of her hands comes up to rest on the nape of his neck, her long fingers tangling in the hair there. Roiben sighs against her lips at the feeling; it’s light and comforting, warming that chill in his bones she alone has ever been able touch.

As often as he scorns himself for giving in to her decision to stay here permanently with him in Faerie, it’s selfish moments like this that he wouldn’t have her anywhere else. He can face the demons waiting in his nightmares—so long as she’s with him.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Kaye says drowsily, black eyes fluttering up to his, lidded with sleep and something else. Roiben hovers over her, grinning. “What was that for? I mean, not that I mind or anything.”

He shakes his head, still unused to the lightness of his newly-cropped hair. “A compulsion, I suppose,” he answers, and lowers himself again to bury his face in the crook of her neck, breathing deep the scents of moss and clover. He can’t quite bring himself to admit aloud that it was more to solidify her presence—to give himself physical reassurance that she isn’t part of a cruel trick his mind so often played on him.

Kaye strokes the back of his head gently, as if she already knows, as if perhaps she too needs the reminder that neither of them are made of phantoms and longing. Roiben kisses the column of her green neck, an arm curling under her, pulling her closer and yet still not close enough. She tilts her head with a soft hum of encouragement. “Whatever it is, I could get used to waking up like this.”

Her hands slide over his shoulders, down his bare arms, along his spine. Roiben shivers and shifts his weight, caging her body beneath him. His mouth drifts along the line of her clavicle to the base of her throat. One of his hands slips under the coverlet to the silklike flesh of her thigh, drawing it up to bracket his hip, while his lips brush against the flushed swell of her chest. Kaye’s hushed sighs as he arches against her spark a flame behind his navel, galvanizing him into urgent desire.

What he wouldn’t do to just simply stay here with her forever, to revel in her touch, her warmth, her love. Let the crowns decay. Let the duties and the demands and the courts crumble to nothing; let him be only a knight and a man again, to be content. Unburdened.

As if the fates decided he needed reminding of his reality, a light rapping at the door to his chambers breaks through their intimate solace.

Roiben ignores it at first, tells himself whatever it is will go away. Surely a herald, one of his knights, or even his chamberlain can handle it—not every small thing ought to be a king's concern, especially not when his council members are already far more inclined to do his duty for him. He doesn't cease his kisses, and instead channels into them the denial of obligations and the desires of his soul. His fingers grip Kaye's thigh tighter in desperation, attempting to tether himself to her and this moment alone. Leave us, his mind pleads. Find another doorway to darken.

But the knocking comes again, this time carrying a touch more confidence and urgency.

Suddenly furious, unfulfilled, and ultimately defeated, Roiben growls against Kaye's skin before pushing himself up. She watches him with heady eyes, seeming just as exasperated at the interruption as he. Her hand lingers on his arm. "Just tell them to fuck off," she suggests, though it's half-hearted. She knows as well as he does that it's very seldom anything he can simply wave or wish away.

"If we're fortunate," he sighs, bending down to give her one last kiss and then forcing himself to rise from the bed, "it will be nothing but our breakfast.” In a moment, he’s crossed the room and wrenched the heavy door open. Ruddles himself is there, hand raised as though he had just been about to give another, less-timid knock; he lowers the hand, and himself before Roiben, bowing low enough that his nose might brush the floor if given another half inch.

“My King,” the hob greets in his usual rasp before straightening. He seems to realize his king’s half-naked appearance and forced even breathing, but carries on. “I apologize for the disturbance at such an early hour, but I assumed you would want to be informed we’ve had a messenger come and go without our receiving him.”

Propping an arm against the door, Roiben barely suppresses a roll of his eyes. “It is not an uncommon thing for a courier to go missed.“ He knows his tone is clipped, but he doesn’t bother to correct it. “Why does this time require my chamberlain coming to my private rooms, when clearly whatever message left was not of enough import to be received in the first place?”

That seems to bristle the hob, who takes a rather deliberate, offended breath through his sharply-pointed nose. “Because, the message was left while the entire hill slept,” Ruddles answers gruffly. His brows are furrowed as if there really is something to be worried about, and his sovereign is, as usual, too unconcerned. “No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did they witness his departure.”

It’s Roiben’s turn to frown. That couldn’t be right: since the rebuilding of the Palace of Termites, they had sentries posted through dawn and dusk, and as many guards patrolling the hill. Surely someone ought to have seen this phantom envoy. Foreboding gnaws at his gut; he doesn’t like mystery, and he likes even less when that mystery involves his playing the part of the ignorant fool.

“What was this message? Did you bring it with you?”

Ruddles shakes his tawny head and wrings his hands. “It was a parcel, a large one, addressed to the Lord of the Court of Termites. We left it where it was found—” he pauses, the troubled expression on his face doing nothing to quell the rising uneasiness Roiben feels—”in the throne room… more pointedly, on your throne.”

A deliberate act, and a bold one. The thought of it sets Roiben’s teeth on edge. “I see,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, deliberating.

From behind him, Kaye yawns. Roiben turns back to look at her, where she’s stretching and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, green hair falling over her shoulders. Just the sight of her, wrapped in his spider silk coverlet and little else, makes him ache with longing. It takes everything he can muster not to bolt the door in Ruddles' face.

She squints at him, as if attempting to focus her vision or read his thoughts, tilts her head in a question. Roiben tries a casual smile and holds up a finger, before turning back to his chamberlain. “Gather Dulcamara and Ellebere,” he instructs. “See if either of them know anything. I’ll meet the three of you in the throne room presently, and we’ll see just exactly what gift our shadow messenger has left us.”

The hob gives a shallow bow and backs away before turning on his heel and setting back off through the corridor. When Roiben closes the heavy wooden door, he leans against it momentarily, breathing a long sigh that does nothing to relieve any of the pressure in his chest.

How exhausted he is of intrigues and suspicions, of forging treaties that seem as stable as a thread stretched above a candle flame. Roiben himself feels like that thread—fraying at both ends while trying to hold his kingdom between his teeth, at any moment about to burn up with the burden of it all.

Take this from me, he had once thought, after his coronation as the Unseelie ruler. I do not want to be your king.

Now, he had two crowns, each heavy as a boulder on their own. Together, they are a mountain, and may very well crush him beneath their weight.

“What was that about?” Kaye’s voice calls from the bed. Roiben moves from the door and crosses the room to sit beside her. When he goes to kiss her cheek, he takes a selfish moment to breathe in the smell of her again, something to take with him. “I’m not entirely sure,” he replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I expect nothing but trouble, as usual. But I won’t be gone a moment—” he leans in again, grazing his lips against her neck with a promise—”and when I return, we can forget them all again.”

Before he can lose himself, Roiben pushes off of the bed. He pulls on a fresh set of clothing—a simple black tunic with trousers to match, and a pair of boots. From the chair beside his bed, he takes up his curved sword and straps it to his waist. Its weight is one he is used to, cold and secure at his hip.

With an apologetic glance back at Kaye, who shoos him with a small wave before shuffling back under the coverlet, he slips through the door.

Dulcamara is perched on the dais when he arrives in the throne room, clad in her beetle-black armor, polishing a dagger while her pink glare remains fixed on the throne. She stands when Roiben enters, however, and gives him a small bow of her head; as reverent a gesture as he likes, if he must be revered at all. “The hob is off searching for Ellebere,” she tells him in her gravel-scraping voice. “Must we wait for our curiosities to be sated?” Her head bobs in the direction of the throne.

As proficient a knight as Dulcamara is, her impatience often wills out, even when it comes to the one she serves.

Roiben shakes his head with a snort. “I suppose it isn’t a requirement,” he admits, stepping up onto the dais. “Though I doubt Ruddles will be much pleased when we solve the mystery without him.” Even so, eyeing the parcel, Roiben finds himself every bit as curious as he is wary.

As Ruddles said, what’s been placed on his throne is no small thing: it covers nearly half the seat itself, dome-shaped and wrapped in a cloth of deep blue velvet, tied together at the top with golden string. It certainly looks like a gift. Yet, as Roiben reaches out to take the small slip of folded parchment resting beside it, his title addressed in a dark blue flourish across the front, an icy dread seeps into his bones. When he opens the letter, he has to clutch the arm of the throne as the dais pitches up to meet him.

From behind him, Dulcamara’s voice seems distant, distorted. “What does it say?” Without turning, Roiben holds the note out to her, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow—or tear his gaze from the parcel. His hand trembles as he reaches to undo the string, to look upon what he already knows lies inside the elaborate wrapping.

“‘Let us see how easily you unwind the wire of your own cage’,” Dulcamara reads. “What sort of riddle—”

“It is no riddle.” He's clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. His hand goes to grip the blade at his hip. “It is a threat.”

Unwrapped and glinting in the candlelight, just as he remembers, is the gilded birdcage that once held his friend and subject, Lutie-Loo—the very one he freed her from in Balekin’s office less than a year ago. Roiben had made a fool of the would-be king then, promising fealty when he’d already sworn to Prince Dain. Now it would seem his trickery is finally being repaid.

“Dulcamara,” Roiben starts, whirling around, “we need—”

An eruption of sound outside the throne room cuts off whatever order might have given. Before either of them have time to move, Ellebere barrels into the hall, sword in one hand, the other covering his side. Blood and dirt streak his pale face, only adding to the intensity of his frantic expression. “The Undersea,” the knight stammers, “they’re here. They’ve been here.”

Ruddles’ words echo dully in Roiben’s mind. No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did anyone witness his departure.

As Ellebere clambers up onto the dais, Roiben is reminded with a turning in his stomach of the last time he saw the knight in such a state, when Silarial made her move on the court. They had nearly been destroyed because of his underestimating and overconfidence. Has he once again brought ruin to his people? To…

“Kaye.”

The brugh swirls around him. His breath is trapped in his lungs.

As a swarm of bodies pours into the hall, the sharp clashing of metal against metal resounding through the hollow hill, Roiben can see none of it; only Kaye’s face, bloodied and lifeless.

Dead, because of him.

Something solid shoves into him, nearly knocking him to the ground before his legs catch him. Jolted back to the present, he jerks his head up just as Dulcamara brings her blade down in an arc across the front of an advancing selkie; the faerie crumples at her feet, black blood spilling onto the already gore-stained floor of the dais. It had gotten that close, and Roiben hadn’t even seen it. Dulcamara whips around to look at him, pink glare ablaze. Before she can scold him, he shakes his head and grips the sword he can’t remember drawing.

“I have to get to Kaye,” he shouts above the skirmish, already retreating down the other side of the dais, cutting through another Undersea soldier as it hurtles toward him. He is already charging down the hall before she can protest or follow, fear propelling his steps and his blade.

The battle seems to be more focused on the throne room, thankfully; Roiben is stalled only once, by a selkie warrior wielding a longsword of shark bone. Though he takes a slash to the thigh, the other faerie is not nearly as fortunate. He falls to his knees, clutching the gaping hole in his chest when Roiben withdraws his blade.

Biting through the searing pain in his leg, Roiben pushes on, repeating silent pleas that he not be too late.

As he comes to the door of his chambers, a fresh wave of glacial panic seizes him; the door has been thrown wide open and is hanging from the hinges. From the other side he can hear crashing, breaking. A struggle, and then a scream.

Kaye is screaming.

Roiben never feels himself move. He sees nothing but the flash of his sword, slicing through the gray-blue neck of an Undersea knight; hears nothing but his own cry of wild rage, his own deafening heartbeat in his ears. In less than breath, both Kaye and her attacker lie on the floor in a pool of mingling black and crimson.

It has happened, yet Roiben cannot shake the fog of unreality that strangles his breathing, weakens his legs, clouds his vision. His sword falls from his hand, and he collapses to his knees beside Kaye. He stares down in horror at the deep red gash from her throat to her sternum. Someone is sobbing. Blood streams from the wound—too much. There is too much blood.

He pulls her into his lap, holds her gently, covers what he can with a trembling hand. Dark, ruby warmth spills through his fingers and over his wrist. “Kaye,” he chokes, reaching to touch her cheek. His fingers are wet with blood and he has to brace against the sick twisting of his stomach.

Her black eyes are wild and unfocused, but she finds him. Grasps his arm desperately, gasping. She opens her mouth to speak, the beginning of his name on her ashen lips, but it comes out a fearful, small sound, and she doesn’t finish. Roiben strokes her hair and hushes her softly, bringing a kiss to her cool, damp forehead. When he pulls back, the unhinged terror in her eyes burrows like a dagger into his heart. “It’s...“

It’s going to be alright, he tries to tell her. The words will not form.

He cannot force back the sob at realizing why he can't say it. It could be a lie, and Kaye might die right here, in his room. In his arms. Dead before their life together had barely begun. Dead because he hadn't been fast enough. Because he had allowed it—because he had caused it.

Roiben can console himself no more than he can console her.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

[mae-gi-writes]

Weak Spot | Q (The Boyz Imagine)

Royal Kingdom AU: It’s Changmin’s job to protect you, but you can’t help but worry. 

Genre: fluff, royal kingdom au, a little drama? 

Words: 2K 

-----------

“Show me.” 

Changmin shifts uneasily under my gaze, his face painting the perfect picture of a guilty child having gone out and about without his parents’ consent as I keep staring him down with an insistence that causes him to flinch. My jaw is clenched, taking note of the way he holds on to his side, the way his breaths come out a little more rattled each time he exhales. 

I take a step closer and hiss, “show me, Changmin. Now.” 

A few seconds pass. Then he relents, peeling back his dark soldier’s coat to reveal his white shirt stained with a huge pool of blood sticking against his side. A small gasp falls from my mouth, eyes widening while taking in the huge gash staining his white shirt a dark wine red, so dark, too dark in the shadows of the moon slithering between buildings. 

I suck air between my teeth. Changmin averts his gaze, bows his head. 

“What the fuck?” I snap. 

He hurriedly tugs his jacket back, but my hand shoots out to grasp his wrist in mid-action, “What—“ the words get stuck in my throat like sandpaper and I find myself gasping to try and string some kind of coherent sentence, “What happened to you?” 

“They were prepared, faster somehow—“ I don’t give him time to answer as I grab onto his shoulder and pull him inside my room before we get caught by the other guards. 

The Royal Palace’s security has been on high alert ever since rumours of a rogue pirate wanting to kill the Palace’s heir to overthrow the power of the throne had trickled through the throng of maids and cooks scurrying through the castle grounds. It had been no surprise when my father had tightened security around the borders, and while I wasn’t even their main target — my brother, Chanhee, is the true heir to the throne — my father had deemed it necessary to assign some of the best soldiers to flank the outside of my quarters. 

That includes none other than Chanhee’s best friend, Ji Changmin, presently dripping all over my velvet couch as I maneuver him onto one of the soft futons by the hearth. 

Changmin and I had known each other forever, so it isn’t surprising to find us lingering within close proximity, talking about anything and everything that crossed our minds. Most of the time, I begged Changmin for some of the folk stories he’d hear whenever he’g go down to grab a beer in the village, and we’d spend hours in comfortable silence poring over books and reading, bathed in the afternoon sun rays shining down upon our figures.

That also means that I care, a lot more than I should. That fact is as clear as crystal water. But even that small fact might not help me in such a dire situation. “So? Are you going to tell me what happened?” I ask after I had hurriedly filled a bucketful of water from my washroom, scurrying back out to see Changmin barely holding himself together on the floor with his face scrunched in a permanent scowl.

 I wring a damp cloth with two hands as I nod my head towards his shirt, “Open up.” 

“Your Highness—“ 

I don’t wait for his consent, quickly flick his buttons open as he shies away in protest. He relents after a few seconds upon realizing that I’m not going to let him off so easily and my breath hitches when I finally catch sight of the wound itself. It’s a deep gash, glinting with still fresh blood that hits my nostrils and almost makes me throw up. It’s sick, metallic taste lingers at the roof of my mouth as I swallow hard and proceed to clean the wound. 

I can feel his eyes on me, measuring my every move as though I’m about to crack at any moment. But I don’t give him that satisfaction, instead bending down to focus on making the area a little more bearable, a little cleaner. He stiffens at the first few touches, before forcing himself to relax. The pain is probably unbearable, and I notice the beads of sweat dotting his forehead with effort. Soon, there’s blood coating the cloth, my hands and up my arms, the front of my nightshirt. But I don’t care, wringing it out in the bucket that is now swirling with a tinge of scarlet. 

“So are you going to tell me or do I have to drag it out of you?” I speak up in the silence that has settled throughout the room. 

Changmin lets out a soft sigh then. A few beats of silence pass before he speaks up, “He’s not alone, the rogue I mean. He has a team working with him, and we thought that we had him. But we got ambushed at the last minute,” he shook his head and I notice the silent anger simmering in the corner of his eyes, “we shouldn’t have dropped our guard.” 

“It’s not your fault,” I murmur, “you couldn’t have known.”

His fists clench at his sides, “it is my fault. I should’ve been more wary,” he mutters through grounded teeth, a frown befalling upon his features like a dark cloud, “they managed to slip by because we were being too naive—“ “Changmin,” my hand goes up to cup his cheek, halting his internal battle with himself. His eyes widen at my gesture but I hold his gaze with mine persistently, “you did what you could. And you can’t blame yourself for that,” I search his eyes, “It’s not your fault.” 

“I know, I know, but—“

“No,” I place my index finger on his mouth, shushing him and holding his gaze with mine, “stop it.” 

His teeth clamp down onto his lower lip and though I can feel the turmoil rolling through him in tumulus waves of restrained emotion, I decide to give him some space and reach for a few bandage rolls I had pulled out earlier. Gently, I urge him to lift his arms so that I can wrap the cloth around his torso snugly against his stomach. 

“Too tight?” I glance up at him. He shakes his head, and satisfied, I fasten the ends with a pin and tuck the remaining cloth out of sight. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs and closes his eyes briefly. I can’t stop staring at him, chest suddenly swelling with relief at the notion that Changmin is still safe and sound inside the castle walls. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I knew that something had happened to him, of all people.

“I don’t want you out of my sight,” the words fall from my lips before I can even stop them and my eyes widen in surprise at the hostile firmness in my tone. Changmin’s features harden like steel, “my duty lies with the Kingdom, your highness. It would be a sin for me not to fight alongside my brothers.” “Do you think I want you to die?” I snap back as anger flares through my veins, a terrifying beast that is slowly tugging at the edges of my sanity. Enough is enough, I can’t stand by and watch him get hurt for my sake, ‘look at you! You’re barely holding on as it is! Who knows whether next time you’ll be able to make it back?” 

“That’s my personal business. You don’t get to butt into that.” 

“You’re not listening—“

“You are not listening,” Changmin suddenly bursts out with blind rage and I can’t help but flinch back at the aggressiveness twisting his features into a glare. He continues on without relent, “for once, can you not think about your own selfish desires and try and put the kingdom’s safety first? What about your people? What about the rest of the soldiers who swear their lives to protect you? Don’t you feel bad for them?” 

His words are icy daggers that pierce my heart. My mouth drops open in shock and I stand, stock still and staring at the injured soldier. Changmin stands, chest heaving and shaking with every inhale, eyes narrowed and filled with the kind of white hot anger that I’ve never been witness to. 

And then, before I can say anything else, he swivels around and walks out of the room, leaving only his footsteps and the echo of his words in his wake, pounding through my skull like a string of bitter afterthought.

—————— The rogues attacks seemed to have died down from their first attempt to slither into the castle, and ever since then, Changmin has been avoiding me. It bothers me at first, considering how we have just ended things that night, but the guilt soon presses down on my heart, so much so that I can’t see guards without being reminded of the claims spurting out of Changmin’s mouth as he’d berated me how selfish I was for not thinking of the better good of the people that surround me. 

I’m a princess and heir to the throne, of course I had to take care of my people first. How in the world had I let that simple factor slip through my fingers in exchange for my own selfish desires?

So I stay away from Changmin, stop hanging around the stables and decide to bury my nose in books about ancient civilizations and war zone strategies. It is a measly attempt to become a better leader, but mostly, it keeps me busy so that I don’t have to think about Changmin and the hole that he’s just left in my heart, punctured by words that he can’t take back because they’re true. A few weeks pass before our next attack takes place. Instead of staying out on the eve to hang out with Changmin like I usually do, I decide to retreat to my quarters early, knowing full well that right now, I’m definitely not welcome at the soldiers’ table. I nod at a few guards on the way up to my chambers and slide the door closed, briefly going over the plan in my head and ensuring that we’ve got all entrances to the castle covered. 

A door bangs in the distance. My head whips around, eyes jumping straight to my windowsill. Nothing. Nothing but the wind howling outside. And then, I hear someone. 

“Y/N.”

I almost scream but it gets choked up in my throat when a hand clamps down on my mouth. I struggle feebly for a few seconds before the familiar alto suddenly echoes through my ear: 

“It’s me.” 

The sound of his voice instantly causes my muscles to relax, and I turn in his hold so quickly my head spins. I grab his forearms to steady myself, Changmin’s hands quickly clasping the back of my elbows and sending warmth traveling along my limbs at his touch. 

Our eyes meet. I take the softest of breaths, feeling suddenly all too warm all over from the way he was gazing down into my eyes, his pools of brown the softest caramel in the dim light of the room.

Realization dawns. My eyes widen in alert, “what are you doing here?” “We’ve got enough protection on the walls,” his eyes are searching mine, darting back and forth along my features with the strain of panic flashing across his face, “listen, Y/N, I’m sorry.” 

At this, my thoughts come to a stop. I stare at him, waiting. He draws in a soft breath, looks away briefly, and when he looks back at me, I lose breath at the softness in the shades of caramel brown that seem to call out to my heart, make it squeeze against my chest in a way that makes me bite my lower lip. 

“What I said the other night, I didn’t mean it, Y/N. I was just so upset and scared, I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. I wouldn’t be able to deal with the guilt,” the words rushed out of his mouth like a streaming babble that can’t seem to stop now that it’s now open, a pandora’s box that can’t be shut closed no matter what. 

He rakes a hand through his hair, the mere action rendering my legs to jelly, as he continues, “I don’t have a lot of time and I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again after this. The enemy is strong and they’re more than capable to take us down if they want to. You saw for yourself, a little closer to my heart and their sword would’ve cost me my life.” 

I blink back the angry tears pooling at the corners of my eyes. I don’t even want to think about Changmin dying. Not now, not ever. I won’t be able to live with the thought if ever this turns out to be a reality. 

I open my mouth to tell him so, lift up my head so I can get one more glimpse of his beautifully chiselled features, made of angles and strong lines. But his hands come up to cup my cheeks. He pulls me close as a gasp falls from my mouth. 

And then, he’s kissing me like this is the last time he’s ever going to see me. His kiss is passionate, mouth staining mine with a newfound feeling that causes my stomach to twist upside down as though I’ve just run through the washing machine. My knees tremble at the warmth blossoming between our bodies and I would’ve collapsed to the floor if not for his arm winding itself around my middle to press me closer. 

He angles his head to the other side, deepening the kiss a little more. I gasp in his mouth and his tongue darts out, licking along my lower lip. The sensation has me dizzy, lightheaded, and as I allow myself to open up to him, I feel a rush of electricity tingle down my spine when his tongue slowly eases around mine in an embrace that causes my hands to fist into his shirt. 

When he pulls away after our long liplock, I notice the softest patches of rose dusting his cheeks, and I can’t help the smile that spreads over my face at Changmin’s embarrassment. 

“What exactly was that, Commander Ji?” I cock my head, eyebrow raised. The said man tries ducking away and averting his gaze. 

He coughs softly into his palm, “a promise,” then, his features harden,"in case I don’t make it back.” 

The smile gets wiped off my face, “don’t say that.” 

Changmin doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds my gaze for a second too long, so that I get a glimpse of the tenderness swimming in his brown orbs. Then, he softly brings his lips to my forehead and pecks the skin there. 

“Wait for me,” he murmurs as I close my eyes to enjoy the warmth of his imprint on my skin. When I open my eyes a second later, he’s gone. ————— I wait. 

And wait.

And wait all night. Dawn breaks over the city like a red veil unleashing its flame. Still, I wait. 

Light streaks over houses like a beam gleaming with shimmering gold. In the distance, birds start chirping.

I wait, too nervous to go to sleep. 

Around nine, I call for the maids and ask them about the soldier’s conditions. “A lot of injuries, your highness,” one of them meeps, “and one death.” That catches my attention, “Who?” “We—We don’t know your highness,” she squeaks back like a terrified mouse, “He hasn’t been identified yet—“

I don’t wait for her to finish her sentence, pushing past them and hurrying towards the soldiers’ quarters as quickly as my feet will allow me. Multiple times, I almost stumble face first down as I skitter down the stairs with my skirts billowing around me, but I keep pushing on despite the fact that I’ve lost my slippers along the way. 

I reach the solders’ quarters breathless, and don’t hesitate to wrench open the door. The chatter ceases instantly, faces whipping around to blink at me. But I don’t care, my eyes quickly searching through the sea of faces for the one that has stolen my heart. 

“Commander Ji,” my voice rises above the crowd, betraying the fear that’s coursing through my veins, “where is commander Ji?” 

A pause. Nobody dares speak, as though shocked into silence. I restrain myself from stomping my foot, my lungs quivering when piping hot anger scorches through my blood like burning hot lava. 

“Your highness?” 

That voice.

I deflate almost instantly. It takes a few seconds for my body to register what my brain has heard. 

Slowly, I turn around. 

There is Changmin, supporting himself against the double doors. He has one of his hands in a sling, a bruised jaw. 

But other than that, he’s alive. Changmin is alive.

At this precise moment, I don’t care about my blood, don’t care about what’s right or wrong. Instead, I fling myself into his arms as an array of gasps echo throughout the room. 

“Your highness!” “And the commander?!” “I thought this was illegal!” “A travesty, surely!” 

Changmin’s lips brush my ear when he murmurs, “not here, your highness.” And then, he’s dragging me out and away from the crowd, down the hallway, and out in the courtyard where there aren’t any prying outside ears or wandering eyes. 

“I thought—I thought you were dead,” my voice broke at the last few words and instantly, Changmin’s arms were holding me in an embrace that felt like heaven. I breathed in his scent; a mixture of pine and mint and what seems to be remnants of the horses’ stables. It’s comforting and warm, it makes me feel safe, and I bury myself closer if that’s even possible.

“I’m here,” he shushes me softly, his lips at my forehead, his good hand gently rubbing my back in comforting circles, “I’m here, I’m okay. We’re okay.” 

“Did you— Are the rogues—“ I swallow back thickly, “gone?” 

“They’re gone, Y/N,” He pecks my forehead chastely, “they’re gone for good. Won’t be coming back so soon.” 

“Thank you,” I find myself blubbering despite the strong facade I had been holding onto just mere seconds ago, and Changmin chuckles softly before bringing his hand up to my face. He brushes aside a stray strand, curling it back behind my ear before meeting my eyes. 

“You’re hurt,” my fingers gently trace over the bruises scattered along his jaw, annoyed that they’d hit such a tender spot, “what happened? You usually never let them get so close.” 

“Oh, they were taunting me,” his face twisted into a scowl at the memory. 

“About what?” 

He paused, bit the inside of his cheek. Then, a soft murmur, “about you.” 

“Me?” 

“They know that I’m…close to you. They knew what my weak spot was.” 

“Changmin,” I huff with a roll of my eyes, “you’re not supposed to let personal matters get between you and your enemies.” 

“I can’t help it,” he pouts so suddenly that it takes me aback, “they can talk shit about me all they want, but not you. Never you.” 

I smile gently before pressing a kiss to his cheek, “thanks, commander Ji.” Despite his strong facade, he blushes right through to the tips of his ears and I can’t help the bubble of laughter from erupting through my chest. 

“No problem, princess.”

[nitannichionne]

If He Was YOUR Fan Chapter 6: The Set Up (Henry Cavill x Reader Fan Fic)

“Tell me something.” Henry says softly as you put a small platter of appetizers next to him. He licks his lips and the simple gesture makes you press your thighs together for reasons you don’t want to think about.

You turn toward Henry as you sit in a seat next to him to watch TV. “Hmmm?”

“Why are you so…far away?” he asks. “We’ve sat on the floor, rode a motorcycle,” he sighs. “I don’t bite…well, not exactly. Why so shy tonight?”

You smile shyly. After touring the Poet’s Corner at Westminster Abbey and riding high with him over London lip locked with your leg wrapped around him, you are feeling a little exposed, a little vulnerable. He is seeing more from you than anyone has in some time. You let your feelings really show, and though it feels good every time with him, there is such a thing as spinning out of control and falling, things happening too fast and getting hurt. You don’t want that, no matter how much your body needs it, no matter how drawn you are to him. Your heart has been broken too many times.

He calls your name softly, and though there is a tender demand in his voice, there is also a plea in in his eyes, looking bluer than usual because of what he chose to wear. Once again, you respond to him, the plea and demand to come closer.

You straddle him and you feel him between your legs. You suppress a small cry of need and settle there but exhale heavily. You know you’re playing a dangerous game, but like a kitten who knows no better, curiosity gets the best of you. You take an appetizer and feed it to him, hoping to distract him by his hunger, but his eyes convey one of a different sort even as he devours it and chews slowly, not losing eye contact with you. He swallows and licks his lips, feeding you one, and then pours wine into a glass. He sips and offers you a drink after you swallow your food. As soon as you swallow the wine, he frames your face with his hands and brings you down for a kiss, lapping the insides of your mouth with deep and slow thrusts that make you moan softly. You suck his tongue as he turns his head to keep drinking from you, and you nibble his lips, lightly biting the lower one.

His eyes open slightly and he rakes your back. The sensation is delicious and you arch to him. The cross over top proves no barrier to him and he nuzzles your chest, planting wet kisses in the valley between your breasts before pushing your top open. Again, the next layer of fabric is nothing; he kisses your neck and pulls down the straps and the top just enough to bare your breasts, and rakes your back again.

“Henry!” you moan, your body helplessly grinding on his as his hands run over your backside and his fingers expertly find your slit through your skort and panties. His fingers need only push aside the fabric and he would have you. He strokes as his mouth captures one of your breasts in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip before gently taking into his mouth for a wet kiss that he repeats over and over.

You move in time with his hand shamelessly, aching with need as your head falls back so you can breathe. You pant and hear your own high pitched moans as he finally slips a finger into your panties and rubs your slit, still not entering you. You gasp, wishing he would come inside. This is too far, but you don’t know how to stop now.

“Shhh it’s alright, breathe, darling,” he whispers into you the hollow of your neck as he starts a rhythm.

You whimper, both your movements becoming more urgent as he grasps your hips and you grind together. You hold his shoulders as you shudder, your body pulsing with need as you fall forward and try to catch your breath. He is hard between your legs. You are both in need, yet somewhat fulfilled. You rake his hair, your head bowed next to his as you try to compose yourself.

“I want you to know I know,” he pants softly in your ear, his voice a growl. “I could have had you tonight. I could have taken you to my bed and that would be that. But the more I know you, the more I want your complete surrender, not a seduction.”

“Henry—”

He pulls you back slightly, and looks into your eyes as he whispers your name. “I believe good things come to those who wait, darling. That’s why I am a patient man, and I think you are a good thing.”

You hear your name called, jolting you from your memory.

“I don’t know what to do!” Stella says worriedly wringing her hands. “I got a job in catering, but I don’t have a place to stay yet! Everyone is in twos, and I don’t know what to do!”

“Maybe we can have her stay with us,” I suggest. “Maybe we can fit a third in with us.”

Hannah nods readily. “We’re at our rental now. Let’s see what we can do.”

The rental is set up like a dorm on one floor with two beds in each room and the other floor had single bedrooms that were so small one could barely turn around in it. You talk to the senior assistant, Michaela, and she basically says it’s up to us, but we may regret it.

You step outside to get air and look at the house and frown. Does that look like an attic or a…?

You race inside to Michaela. “Is the space over the garage taken?”

“Space? What space?”

You walk her outside and point. “That one.”

Michaela makes a call to the renter and finds out it is not furnished, but the bathroom and kitchen are equipped to work and the carpeting is down.

“If I furnish and decorate, may I have it?”

Michaela thinks you are crazy because that is way more than what you have agreed to pay, but gets an okay from everyone. Stella gives you her payment, and she takes your space. On a mission you set off to find what you need in a nearby town.

A guy named Archer and his brother Stuart from scenery decide to help you and Stella get the things you need, even set up the bed and couch for you. You only have two days before everyone had to be on set for work. Hannah opts out to help, but its understandable.

“You can tell me,” Stella whispers as she helps you hang the curtain to separate your bedroom area from your living room-kitchen. “You do know Henry Cavill, don’t you?”

You laugh, and say, “I went to a panel about his latest movie. I wish I knew the guy better!” That was no lie. You feel yourself giving in to him and you don’t know what to do. There was so much to consider since your last date one thing being if you know him well enough to really trust him.

“Well, if you did, this is going to be one interesting movie shoot.”

You frown. “Why do you say that?”

“Henry’s ex, Gracie Gray, is playing a role in this production,” Stella lets out a low whistle. “They were pretty hot and heavy at one time, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

Your heart drops. Henry himself said he prefers women in the business; in fact, he seemed to have a habit of picking women based on that and proximity. The idea of being his flavor of the film tastes like bile to you and makes your stomach twist. You busy yourself with unpacking your things.

Stella turns you around. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You say, but you feel a lump in your throat.

You finally finish the small living space aka hook up the wifi and TV. Happy with  the setup you log into Netflix. “Yes!”

“How much money you got left?” Stella asks as you both recline on the couch.

“Not much,” you sigh. “I’m gonna need this money to stay afloat.”

“It—” Stella looks around. “You did a great job—”

“We did a great job—”

“You measured the space, imagine possibilities and set it up in your mind,” Stella shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“Yes you do it with food,” you argue softly. “Hannah does it with art.” Among other things, you amend silently. “I did it when I worked as an executive assistant in human resources for a company.” You chuckle at the memory. “Moving offices is a nasty business.”

“But I’d say this is the best space now,” Stella smiles. “And you have a private entrance! Maybe you can invite Archer up here sometime.”

Your eyes widen and you slap Stella playfully. “Archer? Come on, Stella—”

“He likes you,” Stella gives you a sideways shake. “It was so obvious.” She is quiet for a moment. “Unless you’re still thinking about the guy on the motorcycle-the look-alike?”

“He is a bit hard to forget,” you sigh, feeling bad for lying to Stella and promising yourself someday you’d come clean. “And time tells everything right?”

Stella crosses her legs on the table and closes her eyes to relax. “True enough. Let’s chill for a minute and then finish unpacking the kitchen, okay?”

You stare straight ahead. “Sounds like a plan.”

Things just got really simple or really complicated.

______________

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Hell to Pay: Chapter Fifty-Two

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, IX, IX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XVIIII, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX, XL, XLI, XLII, XLIII, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLVII, XLVIII, XLIX, XLX, LI

cowritten by @lux-scriptum

A/N: Hey everybody!!! It’s been a hot minute. We’ve been busy lately between work and life and all that fun stuff but here’s a new chapter <3

A/N: So we’re changing a lil bit up, and adding more characters, specifically the gods as we’ve been doing more world building lately. These Gods are also from my own WIP, but have also found their way here!

“I just don’t understand why you need specific wood from a specific place for the crib,” Lev muttered, splashing the water with his foot as he watched Nik paddle around. Nik still wore a large shirt even in the pool, as if Lev and Cameron didn’t know he was pregnant.

"Well, Lev," Nik said. "Not all of us are okay with using hand-me-downs from four hundred years ago. Some of us like new shiny things for new shiny parasites- I say with love- and besides, its native to Tullum. It's home; at least as close to home as I'll likely get."

Lev huffed. “I didn’t mean that you had to get hand-me-downs, if you don’t want to. But I figured asking for wood specific to a region of angel territory when neither of us can go to retrieve it... It’s just a big fuss to make, I guess.” He braced his hands on the side of the pool, leaning forward a bit. “I don’t- Cameron had lots of very pretty options, is all, I guess.”

Nik arched a brow, eyeing him dryly. "And where, exactly, do you think some of those woods come from, Levant?"

Lev hesitated. “I assumed demonic territory?” he finally said, very unsure of the answer now.

Nik splashed Lev with enough force Lev was drenched, spluttering. Before he could think of how to respond, Cameron popped Lev gently on the back of his head. Lev hadn’t even noticed Cameron approach.

As Lev looked up, Cameron simply said, “Come inside. Biela requires your presence. Both of you.”

Lev stood, looking back to Nik, who was hauling himself out of the pool. Since Nik had already soaked him, Lev tucked himself against Nik’s side as they went inside.

Biela was standing in the kitchen. Without looking at them, she simply said, “Take a seat.”

Lev peeled away and settled in a chair, but Nik folded his arms over his stomach, which was beginning to show by that point, and said, "And why should-"

Cameron sliced Nik a look. "Nikolas, sit the fuck down."

At those cold words, Nik promptly sat on the nearest stool without another word.

Lev reached for Nik’s hand. Something told him he would not like whatever Biela had to say. Nik’s fingers tightened around his briefly as they waited for Biela to speak.

Biela fixed her dark gaze on Nik first. “I’m assuming you are keeping the fetus.”

It wasn’t a brief squeeze this time. “Why?” Nik asked sharply.

“Nik,” Lev said softly.

Biela held up a hand in Lev’s direction. “Because I'm also assuming you'd want to know the magic used to bring your boyfriend back from the dead poisoned my lands and is killing countless children. That's why."

Cold washed over Lev, colder than the death that he knew still tugged at his bones. “What?” he blurted, barely a whisper.

"You," Biela said, squarely looking Lev in the eye, "And your cousin and that witch played with forces beyond your control and decided to poison my lands with your greed because you just couldn't leave death well enough alone. I figured since your mate is currently pregnant, that you might want to know what is happening to the infants being born. Much like Nik's infant soon enough."

Lev risked swinging his attention to Cameron, eyes wide. He knew he was digging his nails into Nik’s hand as he searched Cameron’s expression, but for the most part it was unreadable, the usual shrouded calculation flickering in his eyes. Lev looked back to Biela after a moment.

“I didn’t know,” he finally said, voice small.

“Clearly not. You seem to know nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Lev said, finally shifting his attention to Nik. “I’m sorry.”

The blood had drained from Nik’s face. “You’re lying,” he said, the words a harsh counterpoint to Lev’s whispered apology.

"And why would I lie about such a thing?"

"Because you despise me, and you loathe Lev and want any excuse to put Lev back in the ground."

Biela’s mouth curled in a non-smile. "If I was going to put your precious Lev back where he belonged, I'd do so without needing such a cruel lie. I'd just do it."

Lev tugged on Nik’s hand. “Nik,” he said, a warning in his tone this time. “She’s right.”

Tears of anger welled in Nik's eyes. "This is bullshit. This is absolute bullshit. I just decided to keep the thing. Now you're telling me it'll die anyways?"

Greif coiled alongside the fear and guilt. “You didn’t have to tell us,” Lev said to Biela. “Thank you,” he added, before tugging at Nik again. “We’ll figure it out, Nik. You- you could stay with Nate, couldn’t you?”

Nik's mouth pressed into a thin line. "But this is my home," he said, voice breaking.

Steadily, Biela said, "Not every child has been born dead or scarred. Perhaps your blood will… protect it in some way. Healing it."

Lev pressed his face to Nik’s shoulder. “You should talk to Ash. Or Sazra. Both of them.”

Nik stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed,” he muttered, as if it wasn’t midafternoon. Lev watched him go in silence, his heart aching.

Only once he was gone did Lev look back to Biela. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Is there anything I can do?” He meant it, knew she’d read that in his mind, and hoped it meant... something. Though he doubted it did.

Biela leaned against her palms, black hair slipping over her shoulder. "What do you think you can do? You and your cousin offer your pretty apologies while countless are dead like a few well placed 'sorries' will give parents their young once more. I highly doubt putting you back where you belong would solve it, and as I promised your cousin, I wouldn't. You will live with your actions and you will think about how this has affected my kingdom. And you will think about how my mercy has been the only thing keeping you with a home. Not even your own people want you. And now, you're a mass murderer to my people. That is what you can do."

Her words hurt, as they were meant to, he was sure, but he heard no untruth. “I would never assume that an apology would fix anything,” he promised carefully. “I will never forget the cost; I promise. But-” He hesitated. “I know most demons don’t appreciate an angels healing. I have the magic to spare, if it is ever useful. I understand that- it’s not- it’s all I can offer.”

Biela arched a brow. "I'll keep it in mind. If there's something to make you useful, I'll look into it. It's the least you can do."

“It is,” Lev agreed, grief leaking into his tone despite himself. “Thank you,” he added again, before lowering his gaze to the ground. Any more, he thought, and he might say too much.

"And you're not even crying," Biela noted. "An improvement." She straightened, readying to leave. "I'll return for our check up. I expect you to behave in the meantime."

On her way out, Cameron dipped his head in a reverent bow.

Lev waited until her footsteps faded before he looked to Cameron. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

All Cameron said was, "Survive."

-----

After nearly a week of Amara seemingly dodging every appointment Ash tried setting up with her, Ash decidedly went to see Nik so he didn't hunt her down and wring her neck. It seemed like the better alternative.

It was Lev who answered the door. Hesitantly, Lev asked, "Am I allowed to talk to you?"

"Well," Ash said, looking over Lev’s head, "if you weren't, you'd be a little too late now. Where's Nik?"

Lev flushed, cheeks going a blotchy gold. “In bed,” he said, sounding sad. “I’m assuming you heard, then.”

Ash blinked. "Heard what? I just needed to check on him. Did something happen to Nik?" He asked, shouldering his way past Lev. "Is he alright?"

“Oh.” Lev seemed to hesitate. “Fine. Nik is. I think. I mean, he is, but-” His voice got smaller and smaller. “Whatever Cyrus did to bring me back- the magic- infants are dying. Not making it to birth. Biela told us a few days ago. I assumed that’s why you were here. I thought Nik had taken my advice.”

At that Ash halted in place and whirled on him, face leeched white with horror and rage. "Wanna run that by me again?"

Lev flinched away. “The magic poisoned the lands,” he whispered. “The children are dying because I came back."

"I-." Ash inhaled sharply. "I told you. I told every single one of you not to do it. I hope you're fucking happy with yourself," he snapped, jabbing him in the chest. "None of you selfish assholes would listen to me and children are dead for it." Ash whirled back around and stormed his way to Nik's bedroom. "And now I need to make sure another one doesn't die because of everyone's bad choices."

Nik jolted up when Ash burned the door in place to stalk inside. He didn't give Nik a moment to speak before he started doing what he did best. "Have you been keeping everything down? Any fevers or anything beyond the usual normal pregnancy stuff?"

Nik blinked blankly at him. "How the hell am I supposed to know? Because I'm an omega? I-"

"My mistake," Ash said. "I shouldn't have asked you. Lev, has everything been normal with Niks pregnancy so far?"

Lev hovered in the charred doorway. “Other than morning sickness that Cameron and I have been keeping an eye on, everything seems fine. I didn’t think to ask Biela how the- what was happening to the parents. I was- it was a shock.”

"Oh I'm sure," he said, shortly. He turned his full focus back on Nik. "Is there any way I can convince you to come home at least until the baby is born?" When Nik shook his head, Ash sighed. "Right. Well, at least meet me for appointments every few days in Liwen. That way you get exposure outside of Demonic Lands as well as getting a better look in my office?"

Nik sat up on his elbow and watched him warily. “Papi doesn’t want me coming home, Ash.”

Ash rolled his eyes and eyed the bruising still fading from Nik’s neck. “Hm. Well. I don’t think your father is going to get to say much of anything when I hold just as much, if not more power and sway than he does. Besides, you’re not stepping foot anywhere near him, especially when you’re pregnant. I’m sure Nate would have my head. Or at the very least try.”

Nik didn’t so much as crack a smile. “I don’t want to go home.”

Ash sighed loudly. “Alright, fine then.” When Lev tried scooting his way past to Nik, Ash shoved his face away. “Move it, I’m dealing with my patient, Lev.” When Lev huffed Ash looked pointedly at him. “If that’s too much to ask,” he suggested, “then perhaps you can see yourself outside while we talk.”

Lev’s only response was making a face. “I think I’m going to go see what Cameron’s making for dinner.”

When Lev left, Ash turned his sole focus back to Nik who was still looking rather tired. “You gotta let me help,” he said. “We both know I’m the best you’re going to get when it comes to your health.”

“Dunno. Sazra seems to know plenty.”

“Sazra hasn’t seen the light of day in well over a thousand years. That,” he said, “and from what you’ve told me, Sazra also wants to string you up by your balls. Your physiology is different from demons and as great as a healer I’m sure she is, I am your healer and I’m not trusting a demon to take care of you when I’ve known you for the last nineteen years.”

Nik waved him off. “Figure it out, Ash. I don’t want to leave.”

“Because of Lev?” Ash asked, pointedly.

“And if it is?” Nik shot back.

“Then you’re making stupid choices for your baby.”

Nik almost looked like Ash hit him. Ash tried to reel back from that very poor choice of words, but even if he was successful at it, he still didn’t regret them. It was the truth especially when there were millions of infants dead because Ash didn’t stop Amara or Cyrus and now Nik was in the line of fire for his own inactions. “Look,” Ash warned, “if you won’t come back then I’m moving in here and I will make everyone who lives in this house as miserable as physically possible.”

“Like Cameron would let you.“

Ash scoffed. “You think I’m afraid of Wonder Bread Cameron? I get what I want and what I currently want won’t come back with me.”

Nik’s brows shot up at that, but before he could say anything Lev came slinking his way back into the room. “Mami’s actually in charge of dinner tonight so Cameron’s in his office. He looks kinda grumpy.”

“Surprise of surprises, I’m sure,” Ash said. He looked back to Nik. “So what is it, you coming with me voluntarily or am I moving in here against all of your wills?” When Nik stared at him in stony silence, Ash took that as answer enough. He got up from the bed and shouldered his way past Lev.

----

Ash was still being cranky, and Nik was still in bed. Lev wasn’t stupid enough enough to bother Cameron again, and so when he heard Eden waking up from her afternoon nap he decided to go pick her up before she upset the whole house with her fussing.

Even if he was supposed to be limiting how much he picked her up.

After some well placed smacks for not getting to her soon enough, Eden buried her face in his shoulder with a half-awake growl. Lev gave her a little bounce and settled in the rocking chair, toy in hand to offer her when she bothered to lift her head.

Only when several minutes had passed did Eden finish her little sniffle-growls and take the stuffed bear. Within seconds the ear was detached.

Lev sighed as he fished it out of her mouth. Eden took the chance to sink her little teeth into his finger, hard enough to draw blood. Before Lev could pull away, Eden gave a pleased shriek, little nails digging into his hand to keep him there. Despite the surprising amount of strength the toddler had, he managed to get free, in time for Ash to stick his head in the room, eyes glowing enough of a bright green that Lev was quite sure Ash was seeing just fine.

“I just can't seem to leave you alone for five minutes without you nearly getting killed by demons,” Ash grumbled.

Lev shrugged, catching Eden’s little hand before she could smack him again. “Hitting isn’t nice, bitty girl.”

She simply screeched in his face, and then thunked her forehead on his shoulder, giggling.

Lev looked up at Ash. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said as Eden took her bear back and began the gruesome work of beheading it. “Well, I mean- I wasn’t sure how to because I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to talk, and then you needed to check on Nik, and-” He paused, blinking hard. “Rambling. Sorry. I’m trying to work on that. I remembered things, about when I was dead.” He pressed a kiss to Eden’s head to buy himself some time to order his thoughts, and then went on. “I met Nature. During that time I was hesitating. And they talked to me.”

“Oh? And you didn’t bother to tell me this sooner?”

Lev winced. From what he’d gathered from the conversation with Nature, the link between Ash and the god ran deeper than Lev had ever realized. Not that Lev had ever really paid attention to it. He’d never been particularly close to Nature himself; he was starting to regret not trying to forge a connection with the only god the angels had. Maybe his magic would have been easier to access, stronger even, if he had.

“I didn’t remember for a long time,” he finally said to Ash. “But I do now, so I’m telling you.”

It’d been an intense conversation, for sure. He could see a lot of Ash in Nature. Or maybe there was a lot of Nature in Ash. Lev wasn’t too sure how the mechanics of it worked. Nature had all but berated him for dragging his feet. Just from past experience they knew if the spell failed it’d have unimaginable consequences, and Lev now knew just how bad it could have been.

“I promised them I would be the last resurrection,” he told Ash. “And I said if that failed, that I’d help take some of the- the punishment you suffered. It’s not fair for you to be in that much pain on your own.”

“Ya think?” Ash snipped.

Lev took a small breath, and then replied calmly, “I really am sorry, Ash. It was the least I could do, I thought.”

Ash rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Tell me everything you talked about.”

“A lot of it was... kind of scolding. About trying to come back,” Lev admitted. “And telling me there were going to be consequences either way. They laid out exactly what you went through while not stopping us.” Lev cleared his throat. “I- that's when I offered. To help shoulder the pain.” After tucking his cheek against Edens hair, he held up a hand, weaving his shadows through his fingers with ease. “I think that might be why my magic is stronger. I was going to try to- to find more ways to connect with them, but I’ll have to wait until I can go back to angelic territory now, I think.”

“Why? There’s temples here.”

“Oh. I didn’t-” He stopped, frowned. “I don’t know much about demons and the gods-” He sighed this time. “I’m still on house arrest. I’m not allowed to leave until Biela deems me not a security risk.”

Ash lifted a brow. “Aren’t you in a relationship with a demon?”

“We’ve never had a conversation about religion, Ash,” Lev said with an even deeper frown. “I don’t think Cameron’s particularly religious. I guess I could ask him about the demonic gods. All I know is that they’re where demons get their magic, like we do from Nature.”

“They have a name, you know,” Ash said. Lev couldn’t figure out if he sounded irritated or tired. “It’s Asmi.”

Lev flushed. “I- I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He cleared his throat, and said more firmly, “No one really calls them by their name, but I should- I should have asked.”

“Probably,” Ash said drily. “And technically they’re not even the god of nature.”

Lev stood up, bouncing Eden on his hip. “They aren’t?” He asked. “That’s what we were taught in primary school, I’m sorry.”

“Primary school?” Ash said. If Lev didn’t know better, he was teasing him now. Crankily, sure, but still.

Rather than dignify that with an answer, Lev gave up and let a very wiggly Eden down to crawl around the nursery.

“Asmi is the god of balance,” Ash finally said. “They’re tied to the earth. Anything falls out of balance, and we’re all affected. That’s probably where the angels got nature from.”

“Makes sense why the teachers simplified it like that, I suppose,” Lev replied. “If it’s- if it’s not too much trouble, could you teach me more, whenever you get the chance?”

“Sure. Looks like I’m rooming with you for the foreseeable future anyway.”

“Thank you,” Lev said, smiling at Ash. He didn’t get one in return, but considering the amount of pain Ash had gone through in the past several months because of Lev, he didn’t blame Ash. Not one bit.

~~~

There was only so much of Nik’s day being spent in bed Lev could stand before he felt restless himself. Even taking care of Eden couldn’t shake his inherent need to be a busy body. So when it occurred to him that Nik had not yet actually celebrated his pregnancy, he decided it was high time something good be associated with Nik’s pregnancy.

After all, it was tradition.

Lev waited until Eden was down for her nap to corner Cameron and Ash in the kitchen. “I think Nik deserves a baby shower,” he said without preamble. “And I think we should throw him one.”

“Of course you do,” Cameron said, not even looking up from the meat he was searing in a skillet.

Lev looked expectantly at Ash, who just gave a shrug. “Might as well get him out of that foul mood of his.”

“He’s no reason to be happy about what’s going on,” Lev replied reasonably. When Ash narrowed his eyes at Lev, the lack of a glow to his green gaze letting Lev know he wasn’t actually able to see him right now, Lev was quick to add, “So I want to... give him some happier memories about this pregnancy. He’s so miserable right now and all he’s gotten is bad news. A party will cheer him up and maybe give him something to look forward to.”

“Are you suggesting he isn’t looking forward to the several horrendous hours of labor to push that fetus out?” Cameron asked, flicking a look Lev’s way.

Lev blinked. “Well. No, I doubt that. But. The after? Holding the baby? I don’t think he’s thought that far. He’s just stressed and worried.”

“That was sarcasm, Levant,” Ash pointed out.

“Oh.” Lev rubbed his nose. “Um. Well. I do think it’s a good idea.”

“Alright. Fine. I’m sure we can have something set up this weekend.”

“Thank you,” Lev said to Cameron, looking pleased. Up until he realized... “Who can we invite”?”

“Well, that is indeed the question, isn’t it?” Ash mused.

“Can Nate be invited?”

“I sure hope so, Nate practically raised him,” Ash said dryly.

Lev grimaced at him, knowing very well he couldn’t see it. “Yes, but- am I allowed to be there if he is?”

“I think it’ll be fine, especially if Bay is with him.”

After considering that, Lev gave a small nod. “Okay. Can I help plan for it, Cameron?”

“I suppose,” Cameron said.

Lev gave a small hum. “Ocean themed? To match the nursery?”

“Sure,” Cameron said, with the same amount of indifference as before.

This time Lev huffed at Cameron. “I’m going to go see if Mami wants to help,” he said, knowing it was a little petty.

“You do that,” Cameron said.

As Lev... well, even he could admit he was flouncing off a bit, Ash followed. Lev took that as a silent agreement to actually participate in the planning.

---

Darius found himself in Cyrus’ office with a mug of tea in front of him and Cyrus across from him with his own coffee. Even if Darius couldn’t drink the tea, he did appreciate the gesture. It would be nice to be able to drink tea once more.

“Why Cameron?” Cyrus asked, not in an accusatory way, but genuine curiosity.

“Why not Cameron?” Darius asked, splaying his brown fingers along the desk.

Cyrus gave a shrug as he continued to flip through his notes, coffee seemingly forgotten. “He’s not exactly the sort most people seem to be attached to. Outside yourself, Nikolas, and Levant, of course. Most others seem frightened more than anything.”

“I don’t see why,” Darius said. “Cameron’s never been frightening to me.”

“Perhaps it's the amount of people he’s tortured and killed,” Cyrus pointed out mildly. He looked up briefly. “I mean no offense, I simply want to understand.”

Darius thought on that, and he thought on the boy he had known when he was alive. And he thought on the hell that was unleashed upon Cameron once it was found that Darius had died at Cameron’s own hand. And then he said, “Perhaps. Though, I do not judge a person by their occupation. One could say Sorin has killed his own fair share of people, no?”

Cyrus looked over at Sorin, who was curled up as a cat on a pile of papers, orange tail twitching against his white flank as he dozed. “He did,” Cyrus agreed. “And he retired. But you made your point. I see where you’re coming from.” He looked back to Darius. “The war made a monster out of many people. But something tells me the war is not what happened to Cameron.”

“Just a different kind of war,” Darius sighed. He traced along one of his rings. “Have you come up with a solution that would not let Cameron die in the process?” Even if Darius was quite sure Cameron wouldn’t blink at the idea of giving his own life to right this particular wrong- even when the last five hundred years had Cameron’s story of survival written in betrayal and blood.

“I considered just... any life. But- that doesn’t seem a fair trade,” Cyrus sighed, running his own ringed fingers over his face. “I’m not willing to attempt the spell without certainty. The cost of failure is too high, and it’s your only chance.”

“Of course,” Darius said. “I do not take any of this lightly. I am very grateful to you, Cyrus.”

Cyrus gave a small smile, though his face was tired. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Not until after I guarantee this will work.” He propped his chin in his hand. “It’s starting to look like there’s no way for me to be sure what is an acceptable trade, unless I speak with Nature themself.” Cyrus paused. “Which would be difficult, because I’ve never tried to form any sort of connection with Nature before. I didn’t get the education most witches do from their covens, and I was learning so much about the practical side that it slipped my mind.”

“Well,” Darius said, “I am sure there is no time like the present to get acquainted with your god.” Something Cameron, too, was unable to do. “Asmi seems… sturdy.”

Cyrus hummed. “Sturdy. Concrete. Something like that. I think.” He tapped his cheek. “I have no idea how to go about it, though.”

“I could reach out,” Darius offered. “Seeing as how I’m in the same realm as they are. And there’s less risk to you if I were to approach them first.”

Cyrus considered that. “That would... be very helpful, actually,” he mused. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Though perhaps after I take a nap.”

Tagging:  @incandescent-creativity @solangelo3088 @lil-miss-red @halstudies @littleyellowdinosaur @caelisis @idreamonpaper

[writer-k-pop]

The Prince (y.j.h.) - Waning Crescent Hotel

Please read this (W.C.Hotel) if you this is the first post of this series that you see. Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of death, mentions of abuse Genre: Angst, Hotel Del Luna AU, Choose your own adventure, SVT x Fem! Reader Staff: Yong (Spirit General Manager) / Jiwoo (Human General Manager) / Soon Bok (Room Manager) / Mun Hee (Front Desk Receptionist) / Shin (Grim Reaper assigned to Waning Crescent) Word Count: Ending A - 4.6k / Ending B - 4.7k

W.C.Hotel | Seventeen Masterlist | Masterlists

Running through the halls, my heels click at the pace of a speed typer. My hands grip my bunched up dress tighter and I startle many guests in my hurry to the lobby.

"Woah, slow down there." Jiwoo manages to grab my arm and essentially stop me in my pursuit.

I turn and glare at him while trying to continue on my way. Jiwoo flinches slightly when my eyes land on him but his feet stay rooted to the ground like the tree in my garden.

"Let go of me." I tell him, not having any of his attitude.

"Relax." Jiwoo nearly rolls his eyes at me. "Yong's still showing him around."

I narrow my eyes into daggers at him for telling me to relax. Jeonghan's finally here and Jiwoo has the nerve to tell me to relax.

"Did you just tell me to relax?" I drop my dress skirt and rest my arms at my sides, dumbfounded.

Jiwoo nods, "Yeah, I did. Because you need too." He glances around the hall, "You're making our guests nervous."

I yank my arm from Jiwoo's grasp and roll my eyes. I continue on my way to the lobby, slower this time, and with Jiwoo next to me.

"Why is Yong showing him around? Where's Soon Bok?" I wonder.

"Soon Bok had to settle a dispute with a couple about their rooms." Jiwoo informs me as the hallway opens up to the lobby's second floor balcony overlooking the lobby floor.

"A dispute?" I look over at him as we reach the railing.

Jiwoo looks down at the guests. "Something about how they needed to be in the same room with each other. Something about how they're soul mates or something. I dunno, I left before I could understand it fully."

I shake my head and chuckle, "Ah, did they not hear the part where this is the last stop for their soul and tomorrow they'll have another life crowded their small brains?" I watch as some guests chat together while others hurry to the beach or the swimming pool.  

Yong walks out of the outdoor beach entrance with Jeonghan following her. I take in a breath and hold it as he stuns me just like always. He's wearing black slacks and a white button up shirt. His hair looks freshly washed and fluffed down over his forehead. With hands clasped behind his back, he listens intently to everything Yong says and looks at the places she points out.

"He look the same?" Jiwoo asks and I can hear the smile on his lips.

I glance down at my hands gripping the railing tightly, then back at Jeonghan, where Soon Bok is bowing and introducing herself.

"His face does. Though when I knew him, he was a prince." I tell Jiwoo.

"Wow, like an actual prince?" Jiwoo leans his forearms on the rail, looking at Jeonghan, "Like crown and everything."

I give a single nod, "Crown and everything."

"No, honey, that was ridiculous the way she treated us!" A female voice shrieks behind us. "Where did she run away to? HAS ANYONE SEEN THE ROOM MANAGER?" She then full blown yells into the lobby.

I turn to the right and at the top of the stair case stands a very upset female and her very embarrassed husband.

"There! You! Room Manager lady!" The female spots Soon Bok standing with Jeonghan and Yong. The entire lobby goes silent and all eyes are on the female at the top of the stairs. When I look at Soon Bok, I can tell she's extremely annoyed and will probably explode soon. Her face has 'I will kick you' written all over it.

Jiwoo and I silently watch as the female races down the stairs with her husband in tow. In just a few seconds, she is standing in front of Soon Bok who's hands are clasped behind her back in an attempt to keep herself from wringing the female's neck.

"You have to treat us like guests!" The female says loud enough for the entire lobby to hear. All the guests in the lobby just stare at the outburst or nervously glance around.

"Like I mentioned before, we aren't allowed to room people together becaus-"

"Because of policy, blah, blah, blah." The female interrupts Soon Bok. "Screw your policies, we are the guests here and you have to cater to your guests. And we want to room together. Where's your manager?" She suddenly asks and I see Yong smile.

"I'm the general manager here." She says.

"Oh, good, fire this bitch. She's no good here. Doesn't even listen to the guests." The female points an accusing finger at Soon Bok.

"I understand, however, our Room Manager has told you the truth. We are not allowed to put guests together in a room." Yong says calmly, facing the fiery female with her steeled front.

"Now you won't listen to us?" The female shrieks, "What good are you here then?" She asks and my blood boils. It's one thing to treat one of my staff poorly, but it's a whole other thing to treat Yong poorly.

I push back from the railing, "And I'm the one making people nervous." I mutter to Jiwoo as I pass him on the way to the stairs. Jiwoo stifles a small laugh behind me.

Through the silence, my purposefully heavy steps echo off the stairs and catch the attention of everyone in the room.

Soon Bok looks at me and silently asks for help. The same look is in Yong's eyes as well though her's is harder to distinguish through her front. I avoid Jeonghan's face for fear of faltering even the smallest amount.

"And you are?" The female stood her ground as I approach though her husband cowers away from me, as he should.

"The CEO." I say, bored and unamused with her attitude.  

"Oh, would I like to have a word with YOU." The female points her finger at me.

I bat away her finger, and hand, and cross my arms.

"I think the word you should be saying is 'sorry.'" I stare at her.

"Excuse me?" The female questions like she's been offended in the worst possible way.

I place my hands behind my back and lean towards her, "I said you need to apologize to my employees."

"Why would I do that?" The female asks.

I smirk, "Because the policy is in place for a reason. And that reason is because tomorrow your past life will also be living inside of your memory. So will his. Your past life may not even like his type of personality. You could end up being arch enemies stuck in the same room."

The female stutters, trying to form a sentence.

"We should have told you about it when you arrived." I continue, "I'm sure our purpose was fully laid out for you, wasn't it?"

The female nods, slowly, "It was."

I lift up the side of my mouth in a side smile, "Then there should be no problem here and you two should be able to carry out your stay in separate rooms." I straighten my back, "Unless you would like to wake up with a man who you have only have memories of but your previous life leads you to accidentally kill him because you simply despise him?"

The female looks down at the floor in shame.

"I thought so." I smirk, knowing I have won. "Now go away. My staff have other guests to attend to." I wave my hand, indicting that she should shoo.

Her husband understands immediately and drags his wife away. When the lobby stays silent, I glance around and the guests immediately pick their conversations back up.

"Mr. Yoon, our CEO." Yong introduces us.

"A pleasure." Jeonghan greets me in a bit of an awe.

"I do apologize for the disruption." I lower my head in apology, slightly upset that his visit had to be interrupted so rudely. "Soon Bok?" I turn to her and motion for her to continue showing Jeonghan to his room.

As Yong and I turn to walk away, Jeonghan blurts out a question.

"Sorry, but do I know you?" Jeonghan asks, searching my face for any signs of familiarity.

I smile softly and shake my head, "Not from this life, no." I tell him and leave him no time to reply back, walking away with Yong by my side.

"Which room?" I ask Yong as the elevator doors open.

"410." She answers as we step inside.

She presses my office floor while I ask, "How many days?"

As the elevator doors close, I catch Jeonghan still staring at me. And for a second, just before the doors fully close, he meets my gaze and an electric shock runs down my spine.

Yong sighs before answering, "Four."

My heart stays on the lobby floor as the elevator carries my body higher. I had expected him to live many many lives but the Gods apparently had other plans for him.

~The Fourth Day~

I sip champagne from my glass in an attempt to prepare myself to meet the Jeonghan I left all those years ago.

My time with Jeonghan wasn't crazy adventurous but it wasn't dead boring either. However, leaving him was the hardest out of all thirteen. It's not that I wanted to stay with him more than the others. It's the fact that he had his entire kingdom's army at his disposal. So when I left, he was constantly sending out patrols in search of me. I had to watch every where I went, and there were times when he got close but I always got away. Those nights, I would hear his cries. I could hear his heart break and it only broke mine further.

Shaking my head to get rid of the sad thoughts, I finish off the glass and set it on the table. Turning the glass between my fingers, I watch as the moonlight refracts through the glass and shines into my eyes.

A knock at my door pulls me out of my spotlighted daze.

"Come in." I call out, looking towards the door.

Yong opens the door and sticks her head in, "Jiwoo is taking him to the garden."

I nod, "I'll be there in a few minutes."

I stare at my empty glass for a few more minutes then rise out of my chair and make my way to my garden. Where Jeonghan waits for me.

Just as I reach the doorway leading to him, Jiwoo stops me.

"(y/n)," He runs over with a box in his hands, "This just came for you."

I scrunch my eyebrows together and open the box. Sitting inside sits a beautiful crown and a crown that I recognize immediately. It's the crown that Jeonghan wore during his first life. The one he loved and cherished because it was his grandfather's.

Along with crown is a note. Picking up the note, I read the simple sentence aloud.

"I believe this belong to one of your guests." It reads, and is signed simply as 'Gods.'

"Is it his?" Jiwoo asks, curious beyond curious.

I pick up the crown and let my muscles adjust to it's familiar weight. "It is." Then I sigh, turning the crown side to side, "The Gods really know how to fuck with me."

"It's beautiful." Jiwoo comments, ignoring my pass at the Gods.

"You should've seen it in the living world." I smile at him, "Thank you, Jiwoo."

He nods and takes his leave obediently while I walk down the passageway, crown in my hand.

When I arrive, the usually hidden bench is placed between the entrance and the center tree. Though instead of sitting with his back to me, Jeonghan stands facing the tree and his hands are tucked into his pockets. He's still in the black slacks and white shirt but they look freshly washed and pressed.

"Do you think it's alive?" He asks somehow sensing my presence but he doesn't turn around to face me.

I walk towards him while answering, hiding his crown behind my back. "It's like me. Somewhere between life and death. Just waiting." I reach his side and copy his body position facing the tree.

"How long have you waited?" Jeonghan questions.

"Long enough." I breathe out. "I hope your stay was comfortable."

Jeonghan nods, "It was, though I wish I could be in my normal clothing in front of you. They tell me those clothes were unobtainable."

"Unfortunately, the world we are in now does not suit the clothing of our world." I explain, then bring the crown out in front of me. "Though I believe I can still give you this back."

I face Jeonghan and I watch as his eyes light up in recognition. He gingerly takes it from my hands and sits down on the bench. I follow suit.

"I thought this was stolen by thieves and sold in parts." Jeonghan says and runs his hands over the jewels secured in the gold frame. "But you had it."

I shake my head, "I wish. I think the Gods were holding on to it. I just received it a few minutes ago."

"Uh huh," Jeonghan smirks at me, "Sure you did."

I shove his shoulder, "I'm serious."

Jeonghan chuckles then lightly places the crown on his head. "How do I look?" He asks, posing slightly.

"Princely, as always." I tell him with a smile.

He laughs, removes the crown, and places it on the bench next to him. Leaning forward, he rests his forearms on his thighs.

"We had fun, didn't we?" He asks, glancing back at me.

I nod, "We did."

"What happened?" Jeonghan asks, opening his body to face me, one elbow on his thigh, holding himself up. "To us."

I rub my hands together nervously, "I just couldn't stay." I say.

"Why not?" He pushes, "What stopped you from staying?"

I point towards the sky, "The Gods. They told me I had to leave and when they tell me something, I have to listen."

"Part of the curse?" Jeonghan ponders.

"Yeah." I say sadly.

"You know that I looked for you?" Jeonghan tells me, leaning back against the bench. "I looked for years and years."

I nod, staying silent.

"Can you tell me if I was ever close?" He asks.

I chew on my bottom lip wondering if I should. On one hand, it could give him a sense of relief. But on the other, it might make him regretful that he didn't try even harder.

"I just want to know if my efforts were done in vain." Jeonghan continues, literally answering my questions.

"You always could do that." I chuckle.

"What? Read your face and know exactly what you're thinking?" He answers with a smile. "Yeah, I used to think that it was my super power."

I laugh, "And yes, you did get close a couple times." I answer his original question then take a breath. "After the first two years though, I was more careful and you never came close again."

Cockily, Jeonghan intertwines his fingers behind his head, "At least I almost got you."

I shake my head at his comment before diving into my own question, "My turn."

He looks at me from the corner of his eyes, "Alright."

"When did you know you loved me?" I ask, studying his face for details that have changed.

Jeonghan sucks in a breath and releases his hands. "The exact moment? Let's see." He puckers his lips and his eyes wander aimlessly as his thinks.

My hand twitches with the desire to push his lips back down like I used to do but I collect myself before I can move.

"I don't think there was an exact moment but more of one particular night." Jeonghan finally answers. "Do you remember the night of my sister's 18th birthday?"

I faintly remember the big party and nod.

"Do you remember what happened?" Jeonghan asks.

I clear my throat, "I remember something happened at the party and then you tried running away but I think I somehow stopped you."

Jeonghan chuckles, "You could say that."

"Why? Did it not happen that way?" I ask, worried that I'm remembering a different love.

He shakes his head, "No, it happened that way. You just remember the general events."

I lean closer to him and smile sweetly, "Then tell me the details."

Jeonghan wags his finger, motioning me to scoot closer. I follow his instructions and when my knees hit his legs, he swings them over his legs and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"We were in the middle of the party." Jeonghan begins and I just watch him retell the tale while securely tucked in his embrace. "And my sister's idiot ex decided to show up uninvited. I was pissed. No, I was beyond pissed. So without thinking, I went up and gave him a good punch to the face."

"In front of everyone." I add, starting to remember the events.

"I didn't care." Jeonghan shrugs, "He had hurt my sister and he was going to pay for it. Of course though, once I hit him, he got cocky and fought back instead of walking away. So we tussled and fought in the middle of the party for a few seconds before the guards pulled us apart."

I still as the memory surfaces and flashes through my mind. The grand ball room. Jeonghan's scowl of disgust right before he briskly walked over and socked his sister's ex in the face. The way my body froze, unable to do anything to stop the fight that then occurred. The yells of the royal guards as they pulled the two apart. Jeonghan's sister yelling at her ex to get out and leave. Their father, the king at the time, barking orders at the guards.

"My dad was so mad." Jeonghan continues, "The guards dragged both of us out of the ballroom. You know, I don't really know where you disappeared after I left."

I smile at his lapse in knowledge, "I think I was still frozen in place."

"Why were you frozen?" Jeonghan asks, a laugh sitting behind his lips.

"I don't really know." I admit, "I just didn't expect you to do that in front of everyone."

Jeonghan barks out laughing, pulling a giggle out of me.

"It's not that funny." I manage to say between laughs.

"It is that funny." Jeonghan replies still chuckling.

I hit his chest with a pout, "So what happened after you were dragged away?" I ask, but I already know the answer.

Clearing his throat, Jeonghan continues the story, "I don't really know what happened to the other guy, I'm guessing he got booted out though. I, on the other hand, got a good scolding from my father." He runs his hand through his hair while blowing out a breath.

"I heard." I tell him, remembering how I hovered outside his father's office behind the closed doors.

"You did?" Jeonghan asks, looking at me.

I nod, "I don't think I heard all of it, but I heard enough."

Jeonghan's eyes fall slightly, "So you heard all the talk about you?"

I silently nod, snuggling closer to him.

"And the things he said about me?" He continues.

I nod again, sadly remembering the terrible things his father threw into his face.

"And you heard what he did?" Jeonghan asks slowly.

I shakily nod my head. I close my eyes as the echo of his father slapping him rings in my ears. It was one of the sounds that haunted me for a long time.

Jeonghan sighs before continuing the story, "Well, after my father stormed out, I didn't really know where else to go cause every room in the palace seemed to anger me. Even my private studio. So I ran. I ran out into the back gardens and just kept running until the land dropped away and I had to stop. And then you found me."

I look up at him and meet his gaze.

"You know I didn't want to be found." Jeonghan continues, "But you walked up to me with a bag and just waited with me. I don't know what you were thinking but you stood there, silently." He readjusts his position and tilts his head, "You know, while we're here, how did you find me?"

I gaze around the garden, thinking back to how exactly I did it. "I just tried to think how you would think. If I were in your shoes and my father had just berated me and my love, where I would go. I knew you weren't staying in the palace. Everywhere you went there were reminders of who's control you were under. So then it just became a game of where did you start running and where did you end up." I explain, "I found you on my first try." I smile up at him, proudly.

"That. That was the tipping point." Jeonghan says. "You found me when I didn't want to be found but needed to be. And you found me almost immediately." He rests his cheek on top of my head and continues, "The fact that you didn't say anything and just stood with me. And just let me feel what I needed to feel. That was the night I knew I loved you."

"That was probably the most adventurous night we had together." I comment on the story.

"You think?" Jeonghan asks, "What about the night you swore you could get a deer to let you pet it? Or the night you challenged your guards to a game of foot volleyball? Or-"

I cover his mouth with my hands, "Stop," I whine, "Why did all our adventures involve me thinking I could do something?"

"Not true." Jeonghan counters, "I did the dumb things on horseback. Or those little games that I always somehow lost to the palace children? Or, or that time I suggested we go cliff jumping?"

I giggle, "That was the most terrifying yet most exciting day."

"Agreed. Though I never did it again." Jeonghan sighs at the memory, "Your turn."

"My turn?" I give him a questioning look.

"When did you know?" He reiterates his statement.

I drop my mouth open in a little 'oh' of realization. "Uh, the same night actually."

I feel Jeonghan hesitate under me and I'm quick to continue, "Not in the way you think. It was after it all happened." I take a breath, "After I found you in the forest. When you let me treat the injuries you had. The way I could tell what I was doing hurt you but you stayed as still as possible. You would constantly watch my expressions and it was almost like if I worried for even a split second, you would adjust so the worry would go away." I tell him, "That's when I knew."

"You noticed all that?" Jeonghan asks.

"I noticed everything." I say and look up at him again, "Everything."

Jeonghan gives me a small smile before leaning down and presses a kiss to my lips. Before pulling away completely, he pecks me on the nose. Something he habitually used to do.

"What kind of king were you?" I wonder, still looking at him.

He raises his eyebrows at me, "You mean to say that you didn't stick around?"

I shook my head, "It was better to move away. It would hurt less."

Jeonghan takes in a breath, "Well, I like to think that I was a good king. Kind, courageous, and righteous. Though I didn't leave much of a legacy."

"I'm sure you did if you were kind, courageous, and righteous." I reassure him.

"I didn't leave any heirs." Jeonghan corrects himself.

Then he launches into his life. What he did. Why he never married. The battles he had to overcome as king. The reforms he created. The lives he changed. Everything I have only read and heard from the wind.

The sun begins to dip in the sky, illuminating his features in a bright orange hue. As I silently wish the hue away, Jeonghan understands what the time means before I can even admit it to myself.

"So is this when I take my leave?" Jeonghan asks the air around us.

I only nod, not trusting my voice.

Jeonghan moves my legs off his and slowly rises up. He takes a breath as if to steady himself before offering his hands to me.

I reluctantly grab his hands and he pulls me up. Once I'm on my feet, he uses one hand to grab his crown while the other stays locked around my hand.

"Where do I go now?" He asks as we walk out of the garden.

"A car will take you to the afterlife where your soul can rest." I explain and every word feels like vomit, "I will stay here and wait for the others to arrive."

"Will you have to wait long?" He asks, worried about my constant waiting.

I shake my head, "Hopefully not."

"That's a relief." He sighs before we fall into a silence for the rest of the way to the backyard forest where Shin waits next the car.

When the dusk air hits my skin, I get immediate goose bumps but not from the chill, from the finality of the area. There never will be a chance when Jeonghan's soul will mistakenly appear at my hotel's front door. There won't be another run in with one of his lives. This is the end.

Shin stands next to the car, waiting with his hands resting at his sides.

"That my ride?" Jeonghan asks, nodding towards the idling car.

I nod.

"Well, they could've at least given me a grand carriage or one of those, oh, what are they called? Oh!  Those limo things." He tries to lighten the mood.

"Where did you learn about limos?" I wonder.

"That receptionist you have really likes to talk." Jeonghan simply says as we step up to the car.

I smile at Mun Hee's special talent.

"Your highness." Shin greets us and opens the rear passenger door.

Jeonghan faces me with his crown between his hands.

"Would you keep it? So you remember me?" Jeonghan asks, holding out the crown for me to take.

"I can't take it. It belongs to you." I tell him sadly and his shoulders droop.

Jeonghan sniffles but stands a little taller, "Then will you put it on me one last time?" He asks.

I nod, "I can do that." I take the crown from his hands then he lowers himself slightly so I can actually reach the top of his head. Setting the crown in its place, I rest my hands on his shoulders.

With a small smile and tears in his eyes, he kisses me hard, making sure the last is the most memorable. He pulls away and a few tears have managed to slip out but he chooses to ignore their presence on his cheeks.

Without another word, he dips into the car and Shin closes the door once he's securely inside. As the car drives away, I clasp my hands together and grip them tightly while Shin moves to stand next to me.

"Why didn't you keep the crown?" Shin asks, genuinely curious.

"Because it would've disintegrated soon after he left." I tell him as the car's taillights disappear into the fog. "And I couldn't bring myself to tell him that."

I stare into the fog and silently bid Jeonghan farewell.

As a tear slides down my own cheek, back in my garden, one chrysanthemum withers and dies. Shin leaves me alone. He leaves me so I can collect myself before I head back inside to wait for the others who are on their way.

Return to the Navigation Page (Waning Crescent Hotel) to choose the next guest.

"I was told when the sun sets that you and I have another destination to head towards." Jeonghan says, tucking my hair behind my ear. "Somewhere our souls can rest."

I smile, "Since you arrived, I'm free from my binds. We can go and let our souls rest."

We untangle ourselves and rise to our feet. Jeonghan picks up his crown and places it on my head.

"Just as I suspected," He comments, taking a step back and looking at me fully. "The king's crown looks so much better on a woman."

I laugh, "Maybe cause it was made for me."

"That it was." Jeonghan agrees, takes my hand, and we walk away from my garden.

We walk hand in hand to the lobby where Yong, Mun Hee, Soon Bok, and Jiwoo stand solemnly. I slide the crown off my head and hand it to Jeonghan before walking over to my staff.

"So this is it?" Mun Hee asks with tears in his eyes. "This is the day you leave us?"

I wrap him up in a hug, only a tiny bit annoyed that he's being so sappy. "Maybe I'll get punished again and be back here by the end of the year." I try to joke but Mun Hee abruptly pushes back from me.

"Don't you dare say that. You better not return here." He says angrily through his tears.

I chuckle, "I won't come back. I promise."

Turning to Soon Bok, I thank her for her service and her amazing work. Something I never did and should've done more.

Next onto Jiwoo. I also thank him for his and his entire family's service then I unclip the bracelet that has held him to this place.

"When you leave today, you won't be able to find this place again." I inform him, "I hope that you'll be able to go and live your life happily."

Jiwoo nods, "Thank you for letting me work with you. I won't ever forget you."

I smile sadly, knowing that he will, in time, forget me. "Thank you."

Finally I reach Yong who is sniffling and trying so very hard not cry.

"You'd think after all these years of waiting that I'd be prepared for this day." She says through sniffles.

"Thank you, Yong." I rests my hands on her shoulders, "For everything. Thank you."

With lips pursed together, she leans forward and wraps me in an unexpected hug. But I soon wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tightly.

We pull apart after a couple seconds and I wipe the few tears that have escaped from her eyes.

"Keep this hotel running beautifully." I tell her before Jeonghan grabs my hand again.

With final waves of goodbye, Jeonghan and I walk out to the foggy forest that will take us to our resting place.

At the edge of the forest, Shin stands next to an idling car, a somber look on his face.

"(y/n)." He says when we reach him, "It has been an honor working with you. I wish you both a peaceful rest." Shin bows his head and I pat his arm.

"The honor was mine." I tell him with a smile. Now the tears start to line my eyes as the realization fully sets in.

I'm free. I have served my years of punishment and now I'm free to let my soul rest.

I turn back towards the hotel and look up to the top where the rooftop patio is outlined with bright string lights. Then to the mid floors where random room lights are turned on, some guests staying in while others opting to experience the hotel's many services. Then to grand base where guests would be milling around, waiting their turns to leave this world.

"(y/n)?" Jeonghan softly asks pulling my attention to where he sits just inside the car, "Are you ready?"

I take one last quick look at the hotel before turning away from it. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

I lower myself into the car and Shin securely closes the door after I am completely inside. As the car begins to drive forward, Jeonghan securely grabs my hand and I let his warmth guide me towards our final destination.

In the garden, the final chrysanthemum withers and dies so that no more stand at the base of the bare tree.

[bubonickitten]

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Chapter 10 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 10: brief panic attack; some vague JonMartin apocalypse angst. SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 10: Pending Arrival

It’s okay, Jon tells himself, forcing himself to breathe the way Martin taught him: Four seconds in; hold seven seconds; eight seconds out.

Well… okay, it’s not okay. It’s very, very not okay.

…but – four – it – five – will – six – be – seven… okay, exhale.

Some time later – eight minutes, thirty-six-point-eight seconds, he Knows, though he didn’t ask – his breathing evens out and his thoughts clear with it.

That interaction with Martin wasn’t unexpected. There’s little reason to expect things to be different this time around, especially this soon after Jon woke up. He knows this.

There is a wall between him and Martin right now, constructed from a lifetime of rejection and loneliness that Jon himself contributed to for far too long. It’s been recently expanded by a mountain of grief, loss, and mourning – what should have been years’ worth condensed into the last six months – and it’s been further reinforced by Peter Lukas’ manipulations.

It will take some time to coax Martin away from the Lonely. Hopefully it won’t take as long as it did the last time, especially now that Jon knows that the hypothetical threat of the Extinction is not as imminent as Peter claims, but still: Martin needs time and space. Besides, Jon simply can’t force the Lonely out of him with a few words and a prayer. Martin has to choose to reject it of his own volition, or it will always cling to him.

And most importantly: Martin deserves to make his own choice. Jon has no right to take that from him, any more than he did when they passed through the Lonely’s domain.

It would have been nice to be able to physically see Martin, though. Or even just hear his voice outside of his own head. Memories can only provide so much reassurance, and for so long.

Jon had every intention of continuing yesterday’s strategy meeting this afternoon, but already his brief conversation with Georgie and painfully brief interaction with Martin have left him fatigued. The migraine he had expected yesterday failed to reach fruition, but the threat of it still lingers, accompanied by a painless but still unpleasant sensation of pressure in his head, making him feel off-kilter. As of right now, he can still pull on the Archive to speak. Sitting down and strategizing, though, is another matter entirely. Planning ahead has never been part of his skill set. Anxiety, sleep deprivation, and a supernaturally-imparted speech impediment aren’t doing him any favors.

“Let me guess: you’re out of commission.”

Basira looks him up and down, taking in his hunched gargoyle posture in his desk chair, his half-lidded eyes, his restless hands: one resting uneasily on top of his desk, fingers twitching and tapping with no discernible rhythm; the other wound up in the scarf Georgie gave him, still draped over his shoulders.

Jon can’t tell what characterizes her more in this moment: frustration with him, or simple exhaustion. Despite his own hypersensitivity to how others perceive him, he has a feeling that in this moment, it’s the latter.

“I think it can wait until tomorrow,” says Georgie, perched on the edge of Jon’s desk.

“Fine,” Basira concedes. “Tomorrow, then.” She knocks twice on the doorframe. When Jon looks up on reflex, she catches his eye. “Get some actual sleep tonight, Jon. It’s not just your personal mental health on the line here.”

“She is right about you needing to sleep,” Georgie says as Basira leaves. He avoids eye contact. “I’m serious. You look exhausted. I can get you a sleep aid –” Jon shakes his head slowly. “Why?”

With a sudden burst of energy, Jon stands, grabs her hand, and leads her to the entrance to the tunnels. He waits until they’ve both descended the ladder and the trapdoor is closed behind them before he turns to her and blurts out:

“…too afraid to go to sleep.”

“I can sit next to you while you fall asleep if you –”

“…would serve no purpose except to start me having the nightmares again,” he mumbles, sinking into the nearest chair.

“You’ve been having those for a long time now,” Georgie says, following his lead and sitting across from him. “And you’ve figured out how to cope with them. What’s actually scaring you?”

Jon bites his lower lip and bows his head.

“Then I would watch – once again –”

“– paralyzed with fear –”

“– tried to scream but I couldn’t find my breath, I couldn’t move –”

“– I couldn’t talk to anyone –”

“– unable to move its body, though – its eyes darting around wildly –”

“– unable to move – to cry for help –”

“– unable to look away –”

“– could only stare at him as he slowly, achingly crawled towards his doom –”

“– being unable to reach him –”

“– stare at it, knowing how your – friend suffers, knowing how powerless you are to help –”

“Slow down. You’re worried you’ll go back to how you were before?”

“…could only watch from the sidelines, getting a… a –”

He stops, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

“What is it, Jon?”

“And the worst part was that, somewhere in me, I – I liked it –”

“– it drew me in almost as much as it disgusted me –”

“– getting a… a sad vicarious thrill from –”

“– when people look at me… that fear“ – Jon’s breath hitches – “it feels amazing.”

He looks up at Georgie.

“Underneath all that awful fear, it felt like… home,” he whispers in a haunted tone. The shame crashes over him and he breaks eye contact, ducking his head again.

Georgie is quiet for a long moment. Then, she leans forward, reaches out, and takes his hand. He flinches and freezes.

“It sounds to me like you don’t want to like it,” she says. “People sometimes have feelings and urges that they aren’t proud of. Things that would hurt other people, if acted on.” She takes a breath. “But… I think it says more about a person’s character when they fight back against it.”

“…a presence within myself, inside my being –”

“– will strip us of what it means to be human, and leave us something alien and cold.”

“I know your circumstances are… different –”

“…it was the product of an otherworldly evil and called to me,” he says miserably.

“I know,” she says again. “There’s something in you, something that came from outside of yourself, and it’s trying to change you. Consume you.”

“…should have fought harder against the temptation –”

“But you’re fighting it now, aren’t you? You want things to be different.”

“I suppose I had to believe that the darkened natures of our terror could be kept in check – a rather feeble hope, for my own salvation –”

“– as if it might ward whatever awful thing waited inside that door.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s a feeble hope. This is the most sure I’ve ever seen you be about anything.” She jostles his hand until he looks up at her. “You’re not a bad person, Jon. You’re taking extreme steps to make sure you don’t hurt anyone. It might not change the things you’ve done in the past, but neither will beating yourself up over it.”

Jon laughs, wincing when it comes out sounding a bit tear-choked.

“I try to think that I’ve left my past behind, but that sort of denial doesn’t help me sleep.”

“Maybe not. But you don’t have to deny the past in order to move beyond it. You can remember your mistakes and learn from them without letting them define you. And I think… I think you’re going to have to do that, if you want to move forward.” After a moment, Jon nods. Apparently unconvinced, Georgie adds: “Also, I don’t know if you need to be told this, but getting better means actually taking care of yourself.”

Jon chuckles at that, some of his tension bleeding away. “Thank you for indulging me, you’ve been very patient.”

“Stop that. You’d do the same for me. You have done the same for me.” He opens his mouth to argue. “Yeah, you’re not great at comforting people, I know. But I’ve seen you try.”

He must still look dubious, because Georgie sighs heavily.

“Do you remember when I was going through that medication change in uni?”

Jon nods warily.

It had been before they started dating. Jon has never made friends easily, but somehow Georgie had managed to tolerate his company long enough for him to start letting his guard down. At that point in his life, she really was the only one who he could confidently call a friend.

So when the antidepressant she had been on for over a year lost effectiveness and she had to start the arduous process of finding a new one, Jon had a front row seat to a depressive episode – and he felt irretrievably lost. He had no script to follow; he worried incessantly that he was making things worse, that he wasn’t making himself useful enough, that he was intruding on her personal space and she just didn’t have the energy to tell him the truth. He would pace restlessly and trip over his words and lapse into uncomfortable silences, wringing his hands and brooding – being more of a nuisance than a help, he was certain.

“You didn’t know how to help,” Georgie says, as if reading his mind. “You couldn’t make me better. I could tell it was driving you mad, not having an answer, because there was no simple answer. It was just… something that had to be lived through, coped with – and you’ve never been able to tolerate that concept, I know. You’re not good at waiting.” Jon huffs – only because she’s right. “But,” Georgie says emphatically, “you spent time with me, even though I was no fun. Brought me takeaway, set alarms to remind yourself to ask me if I’d taken my meds, did all this – this reading and research on how to support a loved one in crisis, which was” – she chuckles – “very you.”

Jon focuses intently on the weave of his scarf, petting it absently with his free hand, tracing the knit with his fingertips.

“You stayed anyway, even though you were uncomfortable. You didn’t say as much, but you’re fairly obvious when you’re anxious. At one point I told you I didn’t want you to fix it, I just didn’t want to be alone, and… you respected that. Which surprised me, to be honest. I was certain you’d be stubborn about it, act like you knew better than me.” Jon smiles at that. It was a fair assumption for her to make, especially back then. “Probably never would’ve considered dating you if you hadn’t proven me wrong then.”

“Until he became me –“

“– moody, short-tempered, constantly on edge.”

He gives Georgie a wry look as he says it, though, and she laughs.

“You’ve always been moody and on edge, including then. That wasn’t a new development that grew up overnight. What I’m saying is you’ve never been just that – which is why I have expectations of you, because I know what you’re capable of.” She gives him a serious look. “Like I told you years ago, you need to stop seeing things in black-and-white – including when it’s about you. Not everything has a clear-cut answer. You’d be happier if you could make peace with that.”

“And he was aware of it always – could not disagree,” Jon says with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Of course I’m right,” she quips back. “But you’re trying, and that’s all I ask.”

The ensuing silence is a comfortable one. Jon uses the lapse as an opportunity to search for a way to ask after Melanie.

“Statement of Georgina Barker regarding –”

Jon pauses. There’s really no way of saying the next part without accidentally drawing on more than one statement, but… Georgie is safe, and the phrase only appears a couple of times in the Archive, so it shouldn’t be too powerful.

“Statement of Melanie King.”

There is a reverb to the words, but the lightheadedness that comes with it is mild and passes quickly. Georgie appears to notice the odd tenor of his voice, tilting her head slightly to track the sound, but she doesn’t pursue it.

“You’re asking how Melanie is?”

“I wanted to check in with them, find out what happened.”

“She’s… having a rough day. I don’t think it’s my place to say more than that.”

Jon nods again: I understand. Then, he repeats again: “Statement of Georgina Barker.”

Georgie leans forward, elbow on knee, chin propped up by her fist. Her other hand continues to hold Jon’s, but she loosens her grip somewhat. The crease between her eyebrows is familiar to him – Georgie is taking her time to inventory her thoughts before speaking. He waits.

“I’m… hm. It’s been a lot to process,” she says carefully. “I think I’m doing okay for the moment? I’m mostly worried about Melanie. I’ve been worried about Melanie, but… after what you said about quitting – it’s complicated things a bit. It’s – it’s something we needed to know,” she adds, seeing Jon’s guilty expression. “I’m glad you were honest with us. Actually, I think Melanie was surprised that you told us about the, ah, second way to quit. It… hmm. It doesn't fit with the image she has of you.” Jon snorts at the delicate phrasing, and Georgie gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, but she still thinks you’re a self-serving prick.”

Jon shrugs, unperturbed. He already knew that, and it’s not like he’s done much to dissuade Melanie of that assessment. Not yet, anyway.

“Oh, but she told me to reassure you that she isn’t going to kill you in your sleep, so that’s something? I told her that’s not why you pulled an all-nighter, but she said to let you know anyway.”

Jon laughs, and Georgie’s eyes crinkle when she returns a smile. After a moment, though, it fades.

“I did want to ask, though… did Melanie find out how to quit in your future as well?” Jon nods. “In that case – I’m not sure if you were planning on it, but in case you were… don’t tell me just yet what her decision was where you came from. I’ve been tempted to ask, but I haven’t talked it over with Melanie yet, and I think that’s her call to make. Okay?” Jon nods again. “And… she’s still angry with you – with a lot of things, really, but especially this place, and she sees you as inseparable from it.”

“They’re not entirely wrong,” Jon accedes.

“I did talk to her about it. She asked me to let you know that she does want to talk to you – I know she has some questions to ask – but that she doesn’t want you near her right now. She’s trying to sort through her feelings towards you – figure out how much of it is a you problem versus a her problem versus a both-of-you problem. She needs some space to do that. And it’s not the only thing she’s working through right now.”

Jon can appreciate that. Honestly, it’s better than he could have hoped for. Last time around, Melanie had eventually softened on him, had even tentatively called him a friend – but at that point, everything in his life felt like too little too late, and she deserved better than to have him poison her life again. He really had only been looking for someone to help him parse Martin’s intentions – Jon has always struggled with anything less than direct, explicit communication – but Georgie was right to be angry with him. Regardless of his intentions, he was inseparable from the Institute; there was no way for him to ask for advice that didn’t involve dragging Melanie back into exactly the kind of toxicity she was trying to escape.

When he left that day, it was with the intention of staying out of both of their lives from then on. They both set a firm boundary, and they deserved to have it respected. But he had plenty of time to brood during the apocalypse, and there were so many things left unsaid between him and Melanie and Georgie. Even if the world hadn’t ended, he probably wouldn’t have approached them again – they seemed happy, and showing up on their doorstep to talk, even if it was just to apologize, would have only been for his own benefit. It wouldn’t have felt right to intrude on them again and open up old wounds just for the sake of securing closure for himself.

Now, though? Truth be told, he could use some space, himself. He’s rehearsed it many times before – all the things he might say to the people in his life, both living and dead, if he had a chance to see them again – but now that he actually has that chance, everything he’s drafted in his head feels inadequate. It may take some time to get his thoughts in order before sitting down and openly discussing his and Melanie’s fraught relationship.

“So… Martin?” Georgie says, snapping Jon out of his thoughts. “Have you seen him yet?”

Jon makes an uncertain tilting motion with his hand, finding no succinct way to explain that yes, he did have a brief encounter with Martin, but it was a one-sided conversation, and Jon expected as much, but it still hurt; and moreover, Martin was invisible when he visited, no doubt intending to just see for himself that Jon was awake, check in on how he was doing without being noticed; and Jon wishes he had been able to do the same, to have some irrefutable physical reassurance that Martin is alive and real and here and now, because it’s been so long, and…

“…he seemed determined to avoid – me,” Jon settles on instead.

“You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

“I need him to be okay –”

“– the easy, charming man I’d fall in love with.”

“Oh,” Georgie says, sounding stunned. Jon meets her eyes and gives her a quizzical look. “I just – knowing you, I figured you’d still be in denial about how infatuated you are? Or, at best, you’d grudgingly admit you maybe, possibly had a little crush? I was not expecting a declaration of love.”

“Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me, it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already –”

“– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.”

“Holy shit,” Georgie murmurs. “You’re absolutely besotted. I mean, I knew you were, you talked about him all the time and you’re not as subtle as you think you are – but actually acknowledging it?”

“…honestly it’s one of the few decisions I’ve ever made that I completely understand,” Jon replies, not bothering to hide his small smile.

“Wow. You’ve… changed more than I thought.” Georgie mirrors his expression, but then she falters, chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment. “Can I ask how it – if it…” Jon’s smile fades too, but he makes a beckoning gesture: It’s okay; go on. “Regardless of whether things worked out between you, I… well, I have a hard time thinking you’d come back to this time if it meant leaving him behind in your future?”

Jon looks down at their linked hands, expressionless as he begins to construct a response.

“I’ll skip over the bit where –”

“– taking me in his arms and giving me the last and longest hug I would ever get from him –”

“– he was gone. Just gone. And I was alone again. There was no one I could talk to about it –”

“– I had plenty of time to mourn him –”

“– it took all my self-control to keep a grip on that anchor, as I slowly dragged myself away from the edge of my lonely grave.”

Georgie gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, which he returns gratefully.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “For what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you have this second chance. You… are going to tell him how you feel this time as well, right?”

Obviously, he wants to say, but it’s not as simple as he wishes it was. He frowns thoughtfully as he searches for a way to explain the situation.

“…he’s been so lonely –”

“– embraced the loneliness like an old friend –”

“– for a creature of the Lonely, the urge is to isolate, never to communicate or connect –”

“– I wanted to say something reassuring, to reach out and let him know I was still there –”

“But it was like this last time you woke up, too.” She waits for his affirmative before continuing: “So you can do it again.”

“…I managed it eventually, but my inability to speak –”

“– I found him difficult to talk to at length.”

“But,” she persists, “you aren’t going to give up, right?”

“…I knew he would return eventually,” Jon says.

“Good,” Georgie says with a relieved, somewhat exasperated sigh. “I swear to god, if you’d gotten fatalistic right there, I’d have had some words for you.” Jon chuckles. “Seriously, though – you’ll figure this out. You’ve always been stubborn. Every now and then, it’s even an asset.”

“I’m grateful to her, of course.”

“Again, don’t mention it. As long as you keep trying, I’ll support you. I might set limits on how much I’m willing to get involved with the actual supernatural bits – I haven’t decided just yet – but when I need to step back, I’ll tell you. I’m not going to ghost you just because you don’t grovel.”

Jon groans at the pun, which gets a self-satisfied grin out of Georgie.

“Oh, shut up. It was a good one.”

Right, I forgot: comatose people don’t need pens, Jon thinks irritably to himself the next day, turning his office upside down looking for a writing utensil.

He’s so thoroughly preoccupied with rummaging through his desk that he doesn’t notice Basira standing in the doorway until she clears her throat, startling him so badly that he jumps and slams one of his fingers in the drawer. He yelps in pain and pulls his hand back, shaking it out to distract from the throbbing. A moment later, the realization crosses his mind that it’s the same finger he’d tried to cut off the last time he was here.

It’s a coincidence, he tells himself before his mind can wander too far down the rabbit hole. He has enough to worry about without getting caught up in the hypotheticals of time travel and sci-fi tropes about the changeability of the past. Besides, the Coffin hasn't even arrived yet; there are still a few weeks before the original date of his failed self-amputation attempts.

“Sorry,” Basira says, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Honestly, I figured you’d just know I was here.” Jon has nothing to say to that. Trying to explain the fine details of Knowing has never been a pleasant experience, and he couldn’t tackle that subject now even if he’d wanted to. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

“…think of me as an idiot who turned up to give a statement without a pen,” Jon says distractedly, opening another drawer and sifting through it. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Pens?” Jon nods without looking up. “Yeah, I threw them all out – don’t give me that look, Jon. Half of them didn’t even work, and the others looked like a puppy’s chew toy. Anyway, most of what I threw out in here got touched by the Flesh. You didn’t want any of it back, trust me.” Jon grimaces. “Yeah. Anyway, there are boxes in the supply closet – but I think I can do you one better.”

She tosses something at him. He notices the movement belatedly and just barely manages to catch the thing, nearly dropping it.

“Guess knowing things also doesn’t extend to being able to catch without fumbling,” Basira deadpans.

Jon looks down at the phone in his hands, then back up at Basira.

“Got the Institute to cover it as a work expense. I have no idea where the one you had before the Unknowing ended up; I’m assuming it blew up along with everything else.” Basira leans back against the doorframe. “I’m sure texting will go about as well for you as typing has, but Georgie downloaded a few AAC apps for you to try.”

He gives Basira a tentative smile.

“You’re welcome,” she says with a curt nod. The look she gives him then is curious – almost like she’s still trying to get a read on him, debating how much closeness she can risk. Then her guard goes back up and her tone turns authoritative again. “You can practice with them later. Meeting’s in a half-hour.”

Before Jon can respond, Basira turns and leaves.

It’s uncertain how the Archive will take to this newest workaround, but there’s only one way to find out.

“Here, let me take –”

Jon unceremoniously drops the box of statements down through the trapdoor, where it hits the ground below with a dull thud and a puff of dust.

“…or not,” Georgie finishes.

“Was that really necessary?” Basira calls from the bottom of the ladder.

Completely pointless, Jon thinks to himself a bit giddily, ignoring the stabbing pain in his temples with relish. The Beholding can complain all it wants about him mishandling statements; right now, he’s too tired and too delirious to care.

He’d had plenty of time during the apocalypse to develop methods of coping with the Eye’s intrusiveness. The most emotionally satisfying one he’d happened upon basically amounted to random acts of spite. It had no material effect on anything – aside from triggering varying degrees of headaches, but he already got those anyway. It was no different than a petulant child slamming a bedroom door, but it gave him that fleeting feeling of being in control of something, and it felt good.

“Let me go first,” Georgie says. He gives her a questioning look. “You’re using a cane, Jon. There’s a fifty percent chance you’re going to fall on your ass going down that ladder, and I’d rather keep you out of the hospital for the rest of the year.” Jon averts his eyes and frowns. She must interpret it as reluctance, because she clarifies: “You need a spotter.”

Jon signals agreement and she starts down the ladder ahead of him.

The thing is, he wasn’t trying to contradict her. It’s just… well, he’s still getting used to the idea of being cared for again, especially when it comes to insignificant things. Yes, his leg is acting up today, but it’s not that bad – the cane is just to keep it from getting any worse. And if he did fall, it’s not like it would kill him. It would be inconvenient, unpleasant, and probably embarrassing, but too temporary to really register on his distress scale.

Anyway, he’s grown desensitized to physical pain. Or… no, that’s not quite right. What he’s desensitized to isn’t the pain itself, but the experience of being harmed. He’s come to expect it, and these days only the only permanent injuries he receives are those inflicted by one of the Powers. Everything else heals too quickly and completely to feel consequential. Most things don’t even scar anymore, and those that do – well, what’s one more scar?

He knows it’s not a healthy mindset. Even before the world ended, he’d come to regard his body with a sense of detachment. In retrospect, he should’ve known that his rib wouldn’t work as an anchor. Most days, his body didn’t even feel like it belonged to him. Then, as if to confirm that inkling, Jonah possessed him; the Watcher’s eyes started manifesting on and around him; his presence became synonymous with the Eye to anyone who beheld him. He confirmed on several occasions that he wasn’t able to die. Even the Hunt couldn’t kill him. Jon would end one day, like everything else, but a mundane physical death was beyond him.

He doesn’t Know if that’s still the case now, and he’s too afraid to ask.

So, yes: he’s developed a cavalier attitude towards personal safety. Avoiding minor injuries feels almost on the same level as what temperature the water is before he steps into the shower: relevant in terms of his own comfort, but otherwise unimportant. He’s always spared little thought as to his own comfort, and it’s only gotten worse since becoming the Archivist. And the apocalypse didn’t exactly have much to offer in the way of comfort anyway, especially after…

Jon cringes as he stops to reflect on that train of thought. It took him fewer than thirty seconds to rationalize… well, Martin would have called it self-harm. Or self-sabotage, at the least. Georgie probably would, too, if she could see inside his mind right now. His judgment of what counts as worthy of concern is decidedly skewed, especially to an outside observer. It was easy to justify it to himself when it was just him alone at the end of the world, but employing a mindset forged in hopelessness and tailored to a doomed future is only going to be maladaptive here and now.

He should probably take some time later to unpack all of that. It would be easier if he could write it all out; it’s always difficult to keep track of his own thoughts without a visual aid, but –

“Jon?” Georgie calls up to him. “You can come down now.”

Deal with it later, he tells himself, tossing his cane down for Georgie to catch. As he makes his way down the ladder, his leg does twinge a bit, but it holds his weight well enough, and he reaches the bottom without incident.

“Where’s Melanie?” Basira asks.

“Resting,” Georgie says, handing Jon his cane. “She had a bad morning. I’ll fill her in on everything later.”

“Fine.” Basira nudges the box with her foot. “What’s this then?”

“Statements,” Georgie says. She’d watched Jon throw them haphazardly into the box before coming down here. “Not sure why, though.”

Jon moves the box to one of the chairs that they left in the tunnel last night. It isn’t too heavy – just some pertinent statements and tapes that he thought might make this discussion flow more smoothly. Taking a seat in the next chair over, he removes the lid from the box and begins rummaging.

“Statement of Joshua Gillespie, regarding his time in possession of an apparently empty wooden casket,” Jon says after a moment, holding up a folder labeled CASE #9982211 and containing the respective written statement. One page sticks out crookedly, and Jon’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes Tim’s handwriting. This had been one of his cases to follow up on.

He shakes his head and sets the folder aside, reaching into the box for the corresponding tape. Instead, his fingertips brush against a different loose cassette, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Statement of Detective Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner,” he says quietly, removing the cassette. “Traffic stop of a delivery van.”

“This is the statement Daisy gave you?” Basira says. “She said you compelled her.”

“I didn’t realize that was what had happened until afterwards,” Jon says softly. He pulls a tape recorder from his pocket and gives Basira a questioning look.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Jon inserts the cassette and fast-forwards, stopping when he Knows he’s reached the right timestamp. His own recorded voice begins to play.

“If you don’t mind me asking, h-h-how long have you been sectioned now –”

“I do mind,” comes Daisy’s clipped voice. Then, immediately: “Fourteen years.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to make a statement?”

“About what?”

“Whatever you like. Fourteen years – you must have seen a number of paranormal things.”

“And you want me to tell you about them.”

“Uh – I-I-I-I-I –”

“Okay,” says Daisy.

“What?”

“Okay. I’ll give you a statement about – how I got my first Section 31.” A beat. “You look surprised.”

“I mean, I was largely asking as a formality. Basira didn’t give me the impression you were the sharing sort.”

“Maybe you caught me in a good mood.”

“Right, well… good. Do you need me to go over our non-disclosure policy –”

“Not as long as you understand my policy: if it gets out, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

“There are worse things that could happen to them,” the Jon on the tape mutters.

Jon hits stop and looks up at Basira. There’s a sheen to her eyes; he does her the courtesy of looking away and not drawing attention to it. After a long few seconds, she clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice is even and impassive.

“So you really didn’t know you were compelling people back then.”

“…he had no idea what was about to happen to him.”

He probably should have noticed sooner, but he was always so fixated on listening to the answer to a question that he paid comparatively little attention to the asking of it. Insensitive of him, really – far too like the detached fascination of the Ceaseless Watcher, in retrospect. The reality that he had the power to compel others didn’t really sink in until after his conversation with Jude.

Jon notices belatedly that the other two are watching him expectantly. He hadn’t planned on playing Daisy’s tape first, but since he already has it prepared to go, he fast-forwards to the beginning of her statement and lets it play through to the end. No one makes any comment in the few seconds it takes for him to swap the cassette out for Joshua Gillespie’s statement.

“So the Coffin makes people want to enter it,” Basira says as the second statement ends. “Is that why you went in, the first time? You were compelled?”

Jon shakes his head no. Daisy had asked him the same question last time. It’s true that the Coffin called to him, but its compulsion never got beneath his skin – not like that of the Beholding or the Web. In the end, going into the Buried was his decision.

“Why, then?”

“…survivor’s guilt,” Jon says. “I should be dead, really – it’s hard to reconcile yourself with avoiding a death that you feel should have been yours.”

There was more to it, though. He takes a minute to rifle through statements, to piece together his state of mind the first time he entered the Buried.

“I felt a great deal of guilt over my involvement with –”

“– the path of the Eye –”

“– when they looked at me, their eyes were full of – anger – blame –”

“– looked at me with a mixture of hate and helpless terror, as though I could do something to fix it –”

“– cut off effectively all human contact –”

“– I decided I had to do something – anything to get out of the fog –”

“– to lose myself in something that is not the absence of humanity –”

“– desperate to remind myself that I could still feel something –”

“– desperate for any human connection.”

He pauses for a breath. Looking back, if Jon hadn’t been so thoroughly claimed by the Beholding already, he may have been a candidate for the Lonely himself back then. Peter Lukas didn’t have to lift a finger.

“I was starting to fear that if I didn’t manage to do something –”

“– I would lose myself – forever –”

“– I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try –”

“– it was – the most human part of it remaining –”

“– to act, to help, to do something –”

“– I need to not lose any more bits of me –”

“– and worst comes to worst –”

“– at least I felt useful.”

Georgie’s eyes are on him now, reading between the lines.

“Did you even have a plan? Or did you just… rush in by yourself, not even tell anyone?” He nods. “Which?” He gives Georgie a pointed look, nodding a second time. “Both? Figures. Don’t know why I bothered asking, really.”

“…but this time was different,” he assures her.

“How did you get out?” Basira asks.

“It took all my self-control to keep a grip on that anchor.”

“Meaning?”

“…her anchor. The thing weighing her down, tying her to this world,” he tries again.

“Something to ground you,” Georgie says questioningly.

“…to make finding my way back – that much easier.”

“And you can do the same thing this time?” Basira waits for his confirmation before moving on. “What about the delivery itself?”

Jon pulls out another folder and cassette, both labeled CASE #9961505.

“Statement of Alfred Breekon, regarding a new pair of workers at his delivery company.”

“Breekon and Hope?” Basira asks.

Jon nods, inserts the tape, and depresses the play button.

“They’ve been in a few statements, haven’t they?” Basira says afterwards, forehead creased in thought.

As an answer, Jon removes one last cassette from the box before tilting it forward to reveal a handful of case files sliding around at the bottom. All of them contain minor references either to Breekon and Hope or the Coffin, but none of them struck him as significant enough to bother bringing the accompanying tapes.

The remaining cassette in his hand, label reading CASE #0020406, is only relevant for the last minute or so of the recording: Martin’s encounter with Breekon and Hope on the day they delivered the NotThem’s table and the Web’s lighter. Jon pops it into the recorder, fast-forwards to the relevant timestamp, and hits play. Breekon and Hope’s voices echo in the tunnel, finishing each other’s sentences in an uncanny back-and-forth volley.

“Hm.” Basira frowns. “And they just… got into the Archives without anyone seeing them?” Jon nods. “I’m assuming we can expect the same this time?" Another nod, but Jon holds up two fingers, gives Basira a meaningful look, and then puts one down. “Only one of them.”

“Statement of the surviving half of the being calling itself ‘Breekon and Hope,’” Jon says. Then: “When that Hunter killed him – took him from me, made us a me – the casket – was waiting – I fed her to it.”

“Do we have to worry about a fight?”

Jon shakes his head no. “We did not kill them, did not lift a finger. We were bringers of their awful fate, not its executors – and we both tasted it together.” He fast-forwards the statement in his head. “I am without him now – can feel myself fading, weak, no reason to move, nothing to deliver. But I am no longer tied to the casket, so you can have it – climb in, and join her.”

“So we just, what, let it deliver the thing and leave?”

“I told her that any real danger had passed –”

“– fading, weak, no reason to move, nothing to deliver.”

“And then you go in.”

Jon nods. There are more details, of course, but the basics of his plan are the same as they were last time: equip himself with Daisy’s tape, follow the pull of her voice, rely on his anchor to find the way back – albeit hopefully with fewer hiccups this time.

Or fewer lost ribs, at least, now that he has a better grasp on anchors.

Several days later, a visitor arrives in the Archives, albeit not the one they’ve been expecting.

Head pillowed in his arms on his desk, dozing and half-conscious, Jon is roused from a shallow sleep by voices in the hallway, filtering through the open crack in the door.

“This area is off-limits,” Basira is saying.

“I’m just looking for the Head Archivist. Jonathan Sims? He still works here, doesn’t he?”

Is that…

“What do you want with Jon?” Georgie’s voice, sounding genuinely curious, but anyone familiar with her would recognize the protective edge to it.

“Look, is he here or isn’t he?”

It is.

Rubbing bleary eyes and shaking off the remaining wisps of brain fog, Jon stands, his joints cracking in protest. He grabs his cane, heads for the door, and peeks out into the hallway.

Naomi Herne is here, standing in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs between the Archives and the rest of the Institute. She looked his way when she heard the creak of the door opening, and their eyes meet for a brief moment before he reflexively averts his gaze.

“Jon?” She sidesteps Basira and Georgie and starts walking towards him.

He digs in his pockets and brings out his phone. So far, the AAC app has turned out to be a decent workaround. Prolonged use will still give him a headache in much the same way that communicating through illustration does, but it’s helpful for making specific requests, asking direct questions, and conveying simple or general concepts. He’ll accept a headache if it means not being forced to use some convoluted metaphor just to say I don’t know or I’m short-circuiting, please give me some space or I’m going to make tea; would you like some?

“YOU ARE – HERE,” comes the computerized voice as he prods at the screen. “WHY.”

For a long moment, Naomi says nothing, staring at the phone in his hand.

“It’s been over a week since I last saw you,” she says slowly. “At first I thought it must be because you woke up – which was a good guess, it seems – but then days went by and no dreams, and… I was worried.” Jon tilts his head, confused. “What’s with that look?”

Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times, debating on whether to reach for a statement. It feels wrong to be dishonest with her, and a hopeful part of him suggests that Naomi wouldn’t react too badly. She’s seen worse from him, and none of that seems to have scared her away, so…

“…I wasn’t worth worrying about.”

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Why are you so stubborn?”

Georgie laughs at that. When Naomi glances in her direction, she starts approaching the two of them, apparently satisfied that Naomi isn’t a threat. Likewise, Basira drifts off down the hall and into the break room. She leaves the door open, though – Jon Knows she still wants to listen in, just in case.

“He’s always been like this,” Georgie says.

“Figures,” Naomi says, then looks back at Jon. “So, why haven’t you been around? Did you find a way to sever the dreams, or…?” Jon shakes his head no. “Then what?”

“It’s not like I sleep enough to worry about dreams,” he says evasively.

Naomi opens her mouth to reply and at that moment Jon’s phone goes off. He nearly drops the thing as he fumbles to dismiss the alarm. Once the noise is silenced, Jon sighs and looks at Georgie.

“You want me to…?” Jon nods, giving her permission to speak on his behalf. “Okay then.”

Georgie looks at Naomi.

“Jonathan” – Jon huffs at the use of his full name – “has been depriving himself of sleep. But no matter how stubborn he is, he’s still human.” Georgie gives him a stern look, daring him to contradict her. He doesn’t; it isn’t worth getting into this discussion, especially in front of Naomi. “Now he’s started nodding off in spite of himself, he’s been forced to admit that he can’t go without sleep forever – but instead of actually sleeping, he’s decided that the best course of action is to just set alarms at forty-five minute intervals, to wake him up before he enters REM sleep. Which means he’s not getting any restful sleep.” She looks at Jon and smiles disarmingly. “Does that about cover it?”

Jon rolls his eyes – she really didn’t need to offer the detail about his new alarm routine – but he nods all the same.

“And why don’t you want to sleep?” Naomi asks.

“The only thing that worried me was sleeping. I think it gave me bad dreams,” he says.

“Not to be rude, but…” Naomi hesitates before blurting out: “Why are you talking like that?”

“He’s been having… some speech difficulties,” Georgie says, glancing at Jon. He makes a circular motion with one hand: It’s fine; go ahead. “Ever since he woke up, he’s only able to speak in quotes from the statements? It’s… challenging, to say the least.”

“Ah,” Naomi says, chipper, “just some new spooky developments, then.”

Out of habit, Jon glares at her for her word choice, but there’s no real ire in it. If anything, it’s a relief to find that Naomi’s attitude toward him seems unchanged despite said new spooky developments.

“But…” Naomi frowns. “You’ve been having these dreams for two years now, and you said you’ve mostly gotten them sorted. So how is sleeping now any different from the last few months?”

“He’s afraid that things will go back to the way they were before.”

“O…kay,” Naomi says slowly, “but you told me that most of the others have already learned to stop the nightmare sequence without you. And everyone knows now that you aren’t as scary as you look – which, by the way, is it weird that by now it's almost more unsettling to see you with only two eyes? Sorry, not the point. The point is, it won’t be the same as it was before.”

Jon stares fixedly at a scratch on the floor. Left over from the Flesh attack, maybe? He could Know, but –

Focus, he tells himself before his thoughts can wander too far afield.

He isn’t sure how to explain that the other dreamers may not be as forgiving or fearless as Naomi is. Even if they were to find it in themselves to overlook a relapse, even if they don’t start viewing him the way they did before… the prospect of having his bodily autonomy stripped from him again is more than enough to fill him with dread.

It feels too much like the way the hunger pulls him inexorably toward a victim. It will probably feel like how it does when the Archive takes control. And it will definitely feel like it did when he was made a conduit for the Watcher’s Crown. Jonah wearing him like a glove. Locking him in place, forcing his eyes open, hijacking his voice. Making him into a possession, only to cast him aside like a broken toy once he had served his purpose.

“– Jon?”

With some effort, he drags himself back to the present.

“Something not moving but that wants to move. Wants to be free –”

“– stopped being able to move under his own power – walk him like a puppet – directed and controlled –”

“– unable to move – to cry for help.”

Hands shaking, he inputs a response on his phone.

“I AM – SCARED.”

“That’s… okay, that sounds properly horrifying,” Naomi admits. “But you don’t know for sure that’s what’ll happen, right?” Grudgingly, Jon shakes his head no. “So you could be fretting over nothing.”

“So far, so normal, right?”

“Smartass,” Naomi says, but with good humor. “Still, you can’t go without sleep forever – you’re going to have to face it eventually. You may as well get it over with sooner rather than later, and then you’ll know for sure. If nothing else, you’ll get some sleep out of it. But,” she says with a longsuffering sigh, “I have a feeling you’re going to keep pushing it, so…” She holds out her hand and crooks her fingers. “Phone. I’m adding my number to your contacts.”

It isn’t until Jon hands it over that he even consciously processes her words.

“Just so you know,” Georgie says, “he can’t really text, either. Unless it’s in statements.”

“That’s fine,” Naomi says, typing rapidly with her thumbs. “You can just reply with emojis or whatever, Jon. Just something to let me know you’re still alive.” She hands the phone back to him. “And this way I can send you pictures of the Duchess.”

Jon perks up at that.

“The Duchess?” Georgie asks.

“Yep. Adopted a cat last week.” Naomi’s smile is wider than Jon has ever seen it. “She’s settling in nicely,” she says to him before looking back to Georgie. “I almost changed her name, but Jon insisted I leave it as is. Said I shouldn’t deprive her of a title she’d rightfully earned.”

Georgie snorts. “He said the same about the Admiral.”

“Oh, you must be Georgie, then? I’ve heard a lot about… uh –”

“Don’t worry; I’m well aware you’ve heard more about the Admiral than me. Pretty sure Jon prefers his company to mine half the time.” She ignores the indignant look Jon shoots her and holds out her phone to Naomi. “Jon was notoriously terrible at answering texts even before all of… this. Feel free to direct any, ‘Is Jonathan Sims still alive?’ queries to me.”

Jon watches in bewilderment as the two of them exchange numbers. Not for the first time, he wonders how this kind of socializing seems to come so naturally to other people.

“I also wouldn’t mind seeing a photo of the Duchess.”

“What about a group text?” Naomi says. “Spooky-free zone, cat-related updates only. Everyone gets their daily dose of cat antics, I get to honestly tell my therapist that I’m not self-isolating, and Jon can just like things to let me know he’s still breathing. Three birds, one stone.”

“Good idea.” Georgie gives Jon an exacting look. “It’ll give you something nice to obsess over. I’ll have to ask Melanie if she wants to be added, too. She could use the distraction.”

Jon can feel a smile tug at his lips as he hurriedly taps out a response.

“YES – PLEASE – THANK YOU.”

Jon and the others try to retreat to the tunnels as often as possible – every other day, if they can manage it – even if there isn’t a pressing matter to discuss. More than anything, it’s a ploy to throw off Jonah. There’s every possibility that he would grow suspicious if the group only held their secretive meetings just prior to major events. Meeting frequently likely won’t alarm him too much, though. Jonah is likely to write off Jon’s furtiveness as paranoia, or simply his near-compulsive tendency to retread the same ground in aimless circles, obsessing over a single question ad infinitum.

Jon isn’t sure whether he Knows this, or if he’s just become uncomfortably familiar with Jonah’s thought processes. Either way, Jon is well aware of what Jonah thinks of him, of how the man can effortlessly dissect and predict Jon’s every outward action and inner experience. If he's honest with himself, Jonah’s scrutiny may terrify him even more than the Ceaseless Watcher’s.

At least the Eye is alien, operating entirely outside the bounds of human morality and emotion. It and all of the other Fears just… are what they are. Predictable, instinctual, amoral – or operating on a sort of blue and orange morality, at least. It brings to mind something Michael said to him, all those years ago: “Am I evil, Archivist? Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature? When it embodies its nature? When that nature is created by those which revile it?”

Someone like Jonah Magnus, though – born human, raised human, spending several lifetimes embedded in human society – can understand his fellow humans much more intimately than any nonhuman Entity ever could, and he uses that understanding to torture his victims, knowing full well how it feels. On the one hand, Jon and all his other pawns throughout the centuries are nothing but means to an end; he cares little for them outside of their usefulness to him. On the other hand, he isn’t fully detached: there’s no denying the sadistic glee he took in gloating as he forced Jon to open the door.

Even in a world devoid of the Dread Powers, monsters would still exist, and a mundane human monstrosity is almost as dreadful as a supernatural one. Daisy derived joy from the Hunt with more complexity than a wolf would. Jon’s own hunts may have felt instinctual, but they also felt morally wrong in a way that tearing the legs off a spider would never feel to a cat – and he did it anyway. Even Gertrude embodied a certain flavor of monstrosity, despite never fully giving in to the temptation of the Beholding. She did not need to embrace any supernatural power; her ruthlessness damned innocent people all the same, as thoroughly as the Desolation and with as much precision as the Web.

Georgie and Martin – and Helen, even – may have a point about humanity and monstrosity not following a strict either/or dichotomy. Whether the Fears were birthed by humanity or preceded it, in the world as-is they would be toothless without human imagination to fuel and interpret and inspire them. The apocalypse demonstrated that fact rather starkly the more and more the human population dwindled.

Jon shakes his head, interrupting that line of thought. There are more important things to worry about right now. Namely: it’s the third of March, and the Institute is expecting a visitor.

Basira is with him in his office; Georgie is off keeping Melanie company, away from Breekon and any possibility of a confrontation. They’d all agreed to this arrangement last night in the tunnels, and since they’ve been having those clandestine meetings so regularly, it should look like a coincidence to Jonah, rather than a prearranged setup.

And Breekon arrives right on schedule, though this time he cannot catch Basira alone. He comes directly to Jon’s office, dragging the Coffin behind him.

“Jon,” Basira says urgently, not taking her eyes off the hulking figure darkening the doorway.

They must tread carefully – not seeming so unconcerned as to let on that they were expecting the delivery, but not overselling the act so much that Jonah would sense something was amiss.

“I wish I could say that was the last I saw of them – but they did return – started to make deliveries – Breekon and Hope.”

“Where’s the other one?” Basira asks.

“That copper took him from me,” Breekon says balefully. He drags the Coffin over the threshold, lets it fall to the ground with a thump, and jerks his head at it. “So I fed her to the pit.”

“Daisy’s in there,” Basira says, bristling.

“That’s its name? Then sure, ‘t’s in there, whatever’s left. Find out if you like.”

“…get out of my office –”

Jon’s voice crackles with static, and Breekon takes one step backward.

“What are you doing? Stop that.”

“Jon,” Basira says warningly.

“– as soon as they’d placed the box on the floor, they turned around and walked out –”

The static continues to rise in volume.

“I said stop it!” Breekon grunts through gritted teeth, even as he turns and steps back over the threshold.

“– the door slammed behind them” – Breekon does indeed reach for the handle and pulls the door shut after him – “and I was left – with this package.”

The static cuts out abruptly, and Jon exhales heavily, winded.

“What the hell was that?” Basira demands, rounding on Jon. “Did you just – compel him to leave?”

“…apparently this was how it was done now,” Jon says quietly. That at least answers the question of whether he can still effectively use that power. He isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Knew you could compel people to answer questions. Didn’t know you could compel actions, too.”

Jon shuts his eyes, still catching his breath. There were limits on his compulsion abilities even during the apocalypse; there are bound to be just as many now, if not more. He doesn’t have the mindset for muddling through a complicated explanation right now, though, so he opts for the AAC app instead.

“LITTLE,” he selects from the screen. It should be enough to get the general point across, at least for now.

“Great. I’ll just put that in the ominous column, shall I?” Basira sighs. “Is it really okay to just… let him leave?”

“I told her that any real danger had passed,” he says simply.

“If you say so.” She stares intently at the Coffin, arms crossed. “So, what now?”

Without another word, Jon stands and beckons for Basira to follow. As he locks the office door behind them, Basira tells him to go wait for her at the tunnel entrance while she fetches Melanie and Georgie. He nods absentmindedly, but she’s already left without waiting for a response.

The last time, two weeks spanned between the delivery of the Coffin and the day Jon actually opened it. This time, there’s no need to wait. He still has some preparations to make – there’s no need to visit the Boneturner, but Jon does still want to leave some tapes running to serve as physical anchors. He also has to plan for the possibility of something going wrong, even if he is fairly confident in his ability to find his way back again. Mainly, he’d like to leave a letter behind for Martin, though the Archive might make that difficult.

Other than that, it’s just a matter of mentally preparing himself for another trip into the Buried.

Knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any less terrifying, though. If anything, it might make it worse.

End Notes:

Soooo I thought I'd be able to cover more plot in this chapter, but I was too attached to the scene with Naomi to scrap it, and I wanted that conversation between Jon and Georgie to happen pre-Buried. The result is that this chapter feels a bit scattershot. But that means next chapter I can just focus on the Coffin. Thanks for bearing with me! (Hoping to have next chapter ready by this weekend or early next week. Depends on how busy work is.)

For anyone unfamiliar with AAC (augmentative and alternative communication) devices/apps and wondering why it's different from typing/texting for Jon - the app he's using has preloaded phrases and images he can select from, so he doesn't have to type/text character-by-character. It still has drawbacks for him - difficult to use for long periods of time, less likely to work the more specific he tries to be, like with drawing - but at least there's another communication option for him to reach for now.

Citations for Jon's verbal dialogue are as follows, broken down by section. Section 1: None. Section 2: 009; 036; 050/027/008/153/010/015/009/124/056/128; 112; 045/005/112/131; 045; 020/134; 157; 017; 138/130; 059; 029; 101/024; 135; 094; both 028 & 076; 148; 094; 042; 054; 117/013; 013/009; 150; 013/009/013/007/013; 146/092/151/063; 002/050; 009; 062. Section 3: 038. Section 4: 002; 061; 050; 056; 051; 019/138/013/105/113/013/092/122/102; 019/048/011/123/124/014/145/139; 051; 013, 145; 023; 096; 128; 128 (again); 008/128. Section 5: 014; 113; 002; 032/136/015; 025. Section 6: 096; 006; 002; 002 (again); 005; 008.

The taped banter between Daisy and Jon is from MAG 061. The Michael quote is from MAG 101. A few bits of Breekon's dialogue were borrowed from MAG 128.

[lavenderradionoises]

Can You Hear the Winds Changing? - Part 3

I love how this entire thing started as an assignment for class and now became a project with a plot and full character arcs. 

You can find part 1 HERE and part 2 HERE Warnings: mentions of war, violence “Do you really think that having a festival this soon after the campaign is appropriate?” Usta asked Aion, pacing the length of his room. Aion watched his sister. A letter and rose lay forgotten before him on the table.

“It’s Candelae, Usta! The people wait for this the whole year, rest of the world be damned,” Aion countered. When Usta sighed, he took it as a sign to continue. “Besides, it’s one of the few festivals that father allows which celebrate gods who aren’t patrons of the royal family. The people need this now more than ever.”

Usta stopped her pacing to level Aion with a glare before a knock sounded from the door before Iiaare, Usta’s maid, walked in carrying two platters of food. With his own servant dismissed to celebrate with his family, the prince was quick to take one from her.

“Here, let me help.” Iiaare rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh but allowed the prince to take one of the platters. 

“She isn’t helpless, you know. If anything, she can probably carry the food for all the visiting nobles and not break a sweat,” interjected Usta, making her way to the table. Iiaare gave a noncommittal shrug and held up eight fingers before pointing at the platters and mimicking the motion of carrying them. 

Aion watched the interaction with a slack jaw and eyes that darted between the two. “When did you two become friends?” he asked, surprised, remembering how only last week Usta was constantly complaining about her new maid and her inability to communicate.

Usta hummed as though mulling over the question. “When she punched Sir Prent in the jaw three days ago after he told- how many was it?”-- Iiaare held up four fingers-- “after he told four maids that it would be an ‘honor to have his bastard children’ or something along those lines.” 

Aion looked at Iiaare, baffled. He knew Sir Prent and some other knights had missed the past couple of days of training, but the story was that they were feeling ill after coming home from the battlefield. 

The rest of the mealtime was spent discussing what else led to the unthinkable friendship between his sister and her maid. Apparently, as soon as Usta gave Iiaare her protection as both the princess and the kingdom’s seer, Iiaare decided that the best way to use it was for those who had no such protection. 

While Aion was impressed with the new maid, he was even more shocked to hear the awful behavior of the kingdom’s knights. He had known they weren’t perfect, but the knights were supposed to stand for honor and integrity; yet here they were, using their power to abuse those without any. It made his teeth grind. He was so lost in his own head that he didn’t realize their meal had finished until Iiaare lifted his plate from in front of him.

“Oh!” Aion exclaimed, jolting to face his sister as she was making her way out of his chambers, “remember that there will be a remembrance feast tonight for the fallen knights. You should make an appearance.”  

Usta stared at her brother from the open door before rolling her eyes and walking away. Iiaare bowed her head in the prince’s direction and closed the door with more force than Aion thought was necessary. 

~

Aion scanned the banquet hall full of knights and nobles dressed in green, the color of mourning, his earlier conversation with Usta and Iiaare still echoing in his mind. 

“Looking for someone?” came a familiar voice from his left. Aion turned to his sister, eyebrows raised at her presence.

“Oh, stop looking like a startled stoat,” Usta sassed as she took her seat, gesturing for Iiaare to fill her wine glass “The knights who fell in battle were my people too, they deserve the same respect as anyone who works with me in Firebird tower.” The prince nodded and murmured quick thanks in her direction before turning to face the king on his right, who was engaged in quiet conversation with the queen.  

“I have my personal guard stationed at every door. If Stozia attacks, they will buy us some time,” the king said, eyes wandering around the room just as Aion’s had a moment previously.

“Are you sure they will attack tonight?” the queen questioned, spinning her wedding band, a gesture Aion had come to associate with his mother feeling anxious. 

“No, but both Captain Necrosis and Lieutenant Iaastil have a feeling,” the king replied before taking his wine glass and standing up. 

Aion tuned out whatever speech the king had prepared to honor the fallen knights; it was one he had heard many times. The prince gestured for Iiaare to fill his glass with more wine. When the servant did not react, he turned to her. He was not expecting to find her stiffly staring at the main entrance to the banquet hall. Nor was he expecting to see the slightest tremble of her hands around the pitcher. 

Just as he turned to look at the doors, they burst open, with two people calling for knights in the room to prepare for a fight before barricading the entrance. Aion recognized them as twins, Elos and Alos, from his father’s private guard. Unsheathing the sword from his waist, Aion began yelling for everyone to start evacuating. He turned to his sister, kissing the top of her head.

“Take Iiaare and Mother, head for my rooms. If anything happens, take the tunnels to the lower town. At least one of us needs to survive this.” 

Usta opened her mouth in protest but stopped. 

“I love you. Make sure you come back to me alive.”

Hearing yelling approach the doors, he watched his sister grab Iiaare and ran in the direction of the evacuating nobles. 

Aion joined his father and the twins in the front of the hall, the sound of splintering wood resounded through the room.

~

Aion and Usta took turns pacing the physician’s office, both wringing their hands and telling each other that everything will be okay.

“I just don’t understand why…” Usta trailed off, looking towards the cot where Iiaare was being treated. The prince had to bite his tongue so his response would not make it past his lips. He had his suspicions as to why Iiaare jumped between his sister and the assassin’s sword, but it was not something his sister would want to hear. 

The court physician made his way to the siblings. His posture was relaxed as he rolled up unused bandages. 

“She will live. The sword didn’t pierce any vital organs, so she should recover without any issues. Though she will need to rest until further notice.” 

Both siblings let out a sigh of relief. Usta made her way to Iiaare’s side, clearly intending to stay with the servant until she woke up.

“What about the council meeting? They need your ability to See,” Aion began, but quickly realized how futile any argument would be. His sister would hear nothing of the meeting until she knew that her maid would wake up. So, he made his way to his father’s chambers alone, readying himself for an argument between his father and Captain Nexros. 

He heard the yelling before he saw it; surprisingly, his father was not arguing this time.

“Just because Stozia already sent assassins doesn’t mean they won’t do it again!” Iaastil exclaimed, their words followed by a thud. Perhaps they hit the table with their fist. 

“They won’t! That’s not how wars work,” came the reply from Captain Nexros.

“Oh yes, because the rules of war don’t ever change, and Stozia is well known to follow any code of conduct.”

“What do you suggest we do then? Make documentation for every person who lives in this country?” 

“That won’t work when raiders attack. That will be the first thing they go for, leaving all our outlying villages vulnerable,” Aion interjected as he entered the room. The duo stopped whatever glaring match they started earlier to glance at him.

“What do you mean?” asked a young boy near Iaastil. His features and accent reminded Aion of the twins, both of whom he noticed were missing from the room. 

“If everyone in Nemothage was carrying some kind of documentation that they live here, raiders would begin targeting it along with food and supplies,” Aion continued, taking a seat across from the queen, “And if the documentation is stolen, then we would not be able to help the village, hence leaving them vulnerable.” 

At that, Iaastil smirked triumphantly at Nexros, who in turn pinched the bridge of his nose. Moments later, he threw up his hands.

“Fine, be that as it may, but we still need to figure out Stozia’s next move.”

The king pointed at the map in front of him, “There have been attacks on Flatband, Rizeria, Quoavacia, and other border villages between us and Stozia. That’s not even counting the battle at Yorkmer.” 

“I wouldn't put it past King Azorius to keep sending mercenaries to border towns to try and split us up,” The lieutenant speculated, repeatedly tapping one of the outlying villages on the map. “My money is also on him trying to forge an alliance with Nicosby to the north.”

“Why Nicosby? King Azorius and Queen Malyn have a rocky relationship at best,” Aion’s mother pointed out. Aion prepared to answer but was cut off by Nexros.

“Because both have something to gain. Stozia has always wanted our mines, while our current stalemate with Nicosby over the Gretrior fields won’t help us form an alliance. But if Stozia wins, Nicosby might have a chance to gain that territory.” 

“Necrosis is right,” the king stated, ignoring the look of pain on both Iaastil’s and Nexros’s faces before beginning to ramble off instructions on where the king’s guard should go out to scout. Before the king could make any more decisive decisions, Iaastil cut him off.

“Your Majesty, we still have to consider our mission of protecting Princess Usta while she is in Grimmimire. We’re leaving in a couple of days to make it there in time for her to follow up on her promise to the village elder.”

“I see,” the king said lowly. “On whose authority are these orders?”

“The prince’s,” answered Nexros, shifting slightly in Aion’s direction. 

The king looked at Aion, eyes narrowing. Aion squared his shoulders and glared back at his father. His father may still be able to rule, but age occasionally interfered with the king’s priorities, especially when it came to Usta and her role as the kingdom’s Seer. 

The stand-off lasted until the door burst open and a frazzled Usta strode in, scanning the room. Once she zeroed in on Nexros and Iaastil, she stomped over to plant herself in front of them.

“Captain Nexros, could you please ask your twins to leave my maid alone? If they offer her another torte, I think she is going to lose her eyes in the back of her head. Who even let have that many? They have about thirty between the two of them.”

This time it was Aion who cut the captain off, with a smirk that rivaled Alos’s when they were scheming.

“Are you sure it’s not you who’s going to lose their eyes in the back of their head?” 

Usta ignored Aion in favor of glaring at the captain and lieutenant. The captain stood up from his spot at the table.

“Elos must have gone to the kitchens after the attack, she and Alos didn’t even show up for the briefing.”

Usta let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose before turning to their father. Her eyes were tinted green, something Aion recognized as a sign of his sister getting a vision.  

“Your plans to attack through Marmeny are going to fail. Stozia is trying to lure our forces in by purposely weakening their defenses.” Aion watched the king scowl and reach for a quill and some extra parchment. “the most effective way to win would be to split up into three groups.” 

Usta approached the table, keeping eye contact with the king from where he was still leaning over the map. Aion watched the battle in his father’s eyes, contemplating whether to believe the kingdom’s seer or to order his daughter out of the war council. Moments later, the king stepped aside, giving Usta ample room to join the table. Aion released a silent sigh and settled in more comfortably. Even with Usta’s help, this was going to be a long strategy meeting.

[maxparkhurst]

SHADOW’S WARMTH

It was cold outside. Winter’s frost fogged the stained-glass window and only shadows cast from the fragmented light broke the chamber’s monotonous sprawl. Despite all his layers, Augustine shivered. He adjusted the crate of potions in his arms, vials chiming in alarm, and followed his sister through the Cathedral’s entry arch. Their echoing footfalls heralded their path through the pews. His steps sounded far off, muted beneath the dull buzz in his head. Fatigue nestled itself in the space between his shoulder blades, sickly sweet as it pulled the muscles taut. It made his arms quake beneath the weight of their delivery. He wasn’t sure when this sudden case of shakes began or if it’d ever leave.

Augustine kept his gaze trained on the small of Max’s back. Unlike some, he found no solace in the home of the Light. If anything those cold, empty pews sent a shiver down his spine. To believe in fate written by a sole force was to revoke one’s own agency in the coming of destiny. If he were to believe in anything, he believed in their work and the help it’d provide to those less fortunate. Thus, instead of raising his eyes to the angelic depictions splayed on stained glass he turned to his mentor for guidance.

Max walked with the same composure she always possessed. Those unaccustomed to her measured smile and level voice found his sister to be enigmatic. They approached her with wary eyes and shifting feet. Such was the case with the deacon who met them half-way.

“Master Parkhurst.” He dipped his head to Max, wringing his hands within the trenches of his belled sleeves. A pleasant, albeit weary, smile touched his lips when he turned to Augustine. “And son?”

Augustine mustered a meager grin. He wondered if it looked as fake as it felt.

“Apprentice,” Max corrected. She inclined her head to the deacon as she breathed a laugh. There wasn’t any emotion placed in the gesture. As with most things, the laugh was for display only. Something to fill the silence and lighten the air. “It’s good to see you in good health, Brother Matthews.”

Brother Matthews shifted on his heels, sending ripples through the hem of his diaconal vestments. Augustine imagined those flowing robes should bring a modicum of comfort to his restless soul. Quite the contrary. The gentleman hardly filled them out. Only the knobs of his shoulders poked through the dense fabric. Everything else? Lost beneath yards of cloth.

The deacon doesn’t wear the robes, he drowns in them.

“As good as I can be in these troubling times,” Brother Matthews chittered, running his fingers through an already thinning hair line.

His scalp visible through wisps of hair startled Augustine. This deacon could only be a few years older than him. Yet here this gentleman stood with less hair than perhaps what he started with at the beginning of the year. Stress must’ve aged him. Augustine grimaced and stole a glance up at his own locks. Had he faith in some deity, he’d pray to keep his hair once everything finally settled.

“...the potions?”

Augustine blinked. In his tired stupor, he missed the deacon’s question. The beginnings of a crimson blush crept up his neck as he scrambled for an answer. Luckily, Max stepped in.

“Yes,” she mused, coaxing the crate from Augustine’s grip, “They are.” She adjusted it in her arms, rattling the vials inside, and dipped her head to Brother Matthews. “If you’ll lead the way, Brother?”

Brother Matthews looked between the siblings before obliging with a nod.The hem of his robes fluttered as he drifted down the row of pews, looking almost spectral in the waning light. He paused at a stairwell’s threshold and beckoned. “This way…” he murmured.

Max stole a glance up at Augustine. Concern glistened in her eye as they made their descent down into the church’s underbelly. He tried to dissuade her skepticism with a forced smile. It merited a quirked brow followed by humoring silence. She hastened to fall in step with the deacon, lowering her voice so that they may converse in private. It suited Augustine just fine. If anything, he appreciated the momentary solitude. It allowed his thoughts to settle for the first time in over a week.

Has it really only been a week?

Augustine hugged his shoulders. He felt as if he lived two life times while toiling through this whole mess. With the brisk shake of his head, he dismissed the thought. Instead, he focused his gaze on the cobble stone and counted each step down into the lower levels. Only the faint glow cast from torches illuminated the long stretch of shadows. Each step deeper in the darkened veil seemed to put the deacon on edge. His shoulders buckled. His steps quickened. And he wouldn’t stop stealing suspicious glances at them over his shoulders.

For someone as old as you, Augustine mused, You shouldn’t be so scared of the dark.

Augustine simply didn’t understand. He grew more at ease the further from the Light they traveled. Warmth from the torches’ flames started to seep into his chilled bones. His arms slid down to hug his stomach as he cocked his head back, feeling the cobblestone walls brush against his shoulders. Small and dark. He closed his swollen eyes and heaved a sigh. Memories, vague and diluted images, lapped against the foreground of his scattered thoughts. The touch of fire… Press of stone… Long, dark shadows… If he let it, the memory could wash over him. Swallow him whole and cast him far from this cold, hellish nightmare. Send him to a simpler time. A time when he was small. And all he had to worry about was the next page read from Max’s lips as they nestled in the corner of their father’s forge.

He could be there if he fed the memory. Let it grow and consume his waking thoughts. All he needed to do was stoke its flame.

But there was work to be done…

He pushed the memory aside and opened his eyes. The stairwell led down into a hewn stone chamber. Smaller than the Cathedral’s grand hall but bigger than their apartment. Perhaps at some point it housed their clergy’s tomes and relics. Now bedrolls dominated what little space was available. Families huddled atop these meager homes, each in a different stage of misery. Some were mourning. Some were frightened. And some simply watched him pass with a blank stare.

Augustine paused and canted his head. A voice lifted in song. His heart ached from how sweet it sounded. He tossed a way-ward glance over his shoulder, watching as the deacon joined Max in offloading vials onto a workman’s table. They’d be fine without him. He shuffled his way through the huddled masses, following that melodic voice through the winding desolace.

“We cannot thank you enough for your contribution.”

Brother Matthews voice.  Spoken just a notch above a whisper. His quivering drawl broke the teen’s concentration for a split second. Augustine didn’t need to look at his sister to hear the cordial smile gracing her lips. She always spoke in the same tone; pleasant and unwavering.

“We’re only doing our part. Just as the church is doing theirs…”

Augustine allowed their conversation to fade into the background. Scanning the room, he listened for the voice. So sweet. It’d been days since he last heard another human being’s voice, much less hear one in song. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the sound of people. His heart yearned to hear child’s mirth and city bustle. To hear the town crier and to listen to the lady’s chitter. To feel warmth and life again in the city. For now, it’d settle for this voice. One so delicate...That it possessed him to follow it until he found its source.

“Awake, our souls; away with fears… … let every trembling thought be gone; Awake and run toward thy heavenly light, … And imbue me with cheerful courage.”

The girl’s hair glimmered in the torch’s dim light, glistening pale like silver thread. She bowed her head as she knelt on the cold stone. Dressed in nothing but a tattered dress, she shivered as she breathed each word. She spoke with a lyrical somberance which captivated Augustine. He watched her in awe until she caught sight of him. She balked, a hiccup catching in her throat.

Augustine bristled. “Y-your song!” he stammered, curling into himself, “It was… It was lovely.”

Her demur countenance darkened. “It’s not a song,” she murmured, “It’s a prayer.” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m praying for courage…”

“Praying for courage?” he echoed.

“Yes.” The girl pursed her lips, turning her gaze back on Augustine. He felt his face warm as she searched him with wide, doe eyes. No shame resided in them, only resolve punctuated by the furrow of her brow. “The Prayer of Awakened Souls. Don’t you know it?”

Augustine shook his head. “I’m afraid not...”

“Why not?”

The question caught him off guard. A disquiet smile touched his lips as he tucked either hand in a pocket. He chewed on the question before shrugging. “The Light is viewed differently in Kul’tiras,” he professed, “There are Tidesages who blessed the ships and waters. As far as the Holy Light…” He averted his gaze. “Well. I figured it was only used by paladins…”

“By Paladins…” she echoed, flashing him a teasing smirk, “So they can smite their foes?”

Augustine bristled. He rubbed the nape of his neck. “M-maybe…”

The girl hummed with amusement. She scooted over on and beckoned Augustine to sit. “The Light,” she explained, settling back, “Is used for so much more. It can be wielded by anyone. You. Me. Even an infant. It grants those who believe in it strength.”

Augustine sat cross-legged and quirked a brow. “But the Light exists…It’s part of this world, just like arcane and nature magic. Believing or not, it’s an irrefutable fact.”

“There’s a difference…” She took his hands in her own.  “Between believing in its existence and believing in it…” She pressed both their hands to his chest. “When you truly embrace it. Its warmth will fill you.”

In his palms, he held his chittering heart. He searched for such faith in each pulse. His smile softened. He found no Light in his chest. It only harbored the crackle of a still borne fire. “I think I understand now…”

Augustine nodded thoughtfully as turned to steal a glance over his shoulder. The conversation between Max and the deacon looked to have drawn to a close. Shadows danced off her lithe form as she crossed the chamber, coming to stop just before him. She looked between him and the girl.

“It’s time to go, Augustine.”

The girl released his hands and curled into herself. “Augustine,” she murmured, brushing back an errant lock of hair, “That’s a nice name.” She summoned a demur smile. “I will pray that the Light gives you strength.”

Such a strange sentiment that he found oddly comforting. Augustine returned the smile as he rose to his feet. “I appreciate it…” A twang of guilt touched his heart. He couldn’t offer words of comfort. Not in the way her expectant gaze asked.

For his gifts of strength came in the form of tiny vials and mason jars.

Previous Chapter: What We Can

[asktheghosthost]

Ghost Host/ Constance

For the first time in his afterlife, Beauregard didn’t knock before entering the attic. Actually, “entering” is too kind a word. He slammed the door open. Did he feel ashamed about it for a second? Yes, but then the righteous anger he felt came rushing back.

“Ms. Hatchaway!” he bellowed. When she didn’t instantly appear, he prowled through the attic, good eye scanning every shadow and corner. There were too many stacks and piles of junk for her to hide behind.

“Constance! Constance, I demand you come out at on—”

Shing! Thunk!

A hatchet lodged into a portrait frame, mere millimeters from his ear. He couldn’t help glancing aside at it, catching his warped reflection in the well-polished blade.

“You demand?” Her airy voice drifted over from the far side of the room, where her glowing, bright form appeared. Her white gown and veil billowed out behind her as she floated towards him. The bright blue irises of her narrowed eyes were piercing, making her gaze as sharp as her blade. Beau had to admit it was a beautiful effect… for a serial killer.

“Demand,” she repeated. “That’s cute.” She held up her perfectly manicured hand, and her hatchet dislodged and obediently flew to her palm. “You come barging into a lady’s chambers unannounced, and then have the audacity to make demands.” She pouted, her plump, dark blue lower lip out in a hurt expression. “Such a brute. I thought you were a gentleman, Beauregard.”

“I—I am,” he said in a much quieter voice. He even took half a step back, a move that only made her smirk. This really was all just a game to her, he realized. So, he set his jaw into a determined frown and stood up a little straighter. “Constance, I’m here because you physically threatened one of our mortal guests.”

She snorted. “Says who?”

“The teenager who ran out screaming about a witch cutting off his head!” He crossed his arms and leaned forward, but made sure not to get too into her personal space. “The teenager that had a black eye and blood trickling down his cheek. Scares are encouraged, but we draw a strict line at physical harm. You're well aware of that."

She scoffed. "That idiot ran into a beam." With a jerk of her head, she indicated to said support with her chin. Fingering the tip of her blade, she added, "Probably cut himself on an exposed nail." She looked up at him, smiling slyly. "Safety concerns seem like they'd be more your department, Mr. Host."

He closed his eyes and let out a long groan while massaging the bridge of his nose. "Constance..."

"What's wrong, Hosty? Not as sharp..." She whipped up her hatchet, which gave off another shing. "As you used to be?"

With a dramatic little flourish of his wrist, his own hatchet materialized. "If anyone has gotten duller over the decades, dear, it's you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Sure we're not overcompensating for something, Mr. Host?" She jabbed his admittedly smaller and blander blade head with hers.

He clutched it to his chest protectively, the innuendo either ignored or having gone right over his head. It was hard to tell with Beau sometimes.

"This is the blade of someone hard working," he said. "Rough from years of chopping wood... and a... very unsuccessful attempt at rope."

She rolled her eyes. Leave it to Beau to twist her jab at his manhood into an accidental commentary on classism and whining about his suicide.

"Honest, difficult work," he continued. "Which is obviously why you don't recognize it."

"Excuse me!" She held up her weapon, stopping it right against his Adam's apple. "I worked exceptionally hard to get what I have!"

He looked around the attic, completely ignoring the unwavering hatchet. "I suppose so... Configuring your alibis, the networking through social circles to find your targets, the physical dexterity to decapitate a man... The fact you weren't caught until the very end... It would be admirable if it weren't, well, so heinous. It takes incredible skills at scheming, an intellect not matched by your other murderous cohorts in the mansion."

She dropped her arm in unbridled annoyance, and her hatchet disappeared. "God, you're infuriating." She plopped onto a trunk, and he followed suite across from her, watching her quizzically.

"I get that a lot."

"I was waiting for any excuse to take a swing at you, and I... I can't. I left myself wide open for a crude retort, too." She eyed him expectantly.

He leaned forward, elbows on his skinny knees, thin, long index fingers steepled up against his pale lips. Behind his knuckles, he was smirking. "I do so love subverting expectations."

This was her fault, she thought. She started this by accusing him of not being a gentleman, and now he was going out of his way to be such. Anyone else would have seen the opportunity to snap "... on your back!" when she said she worked hard. Or at least the easy "legs wide open, maybe" which she'd practically offered him on a silver platter. She was used to those insults. She heard them daily, usually from the five wedding portraits around the attic, but sometimes from passerby in the ballroom and halls. They could fuel her anger, give her an excuse to lash out, something she'd wanted when he'd barged in.

He pulled his hands away from his mouth. "I'm sorry I accused you of hurting the boy. I should have known better."

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on her, and she practically shivered as she straightened up. "Hm? What do you mean? Everyone knows I'm a homicidal maniac." There was acid in the words.

Chuckling, he shook his head. "Ms. Hatchaway, do you ever wonder why you're not trapped in a portrait like Jack the Ripper, or the arsonist?"

She looked around. "Too many stunning pictures of me to choose from?"

"No." His half-smile was genuine, and she found herself wondering what it looked like before the scarring on his face had weakened part of it. "You're intelligent, calculating. You know murdering for fortune is pointless now."

"No one takes a check from dead people. It's a real bummer because I want a new car. Have you seen some of the vehicles these mortals drive now?" She whistled.

A softer chuckle, this one exhaled through his nostrils. A pity laugh, she thought.

He continued. "And, deep down, I think you realized it was pointless. You're still here, stuck with money you can't spend. But at least you have a home..."

She put her hand to her chest and scoffed. "Full of complete idiots."

"Family... In a bizarre, grotesque way." He shrugged a shoulder. "And with all that in mind, I know there's a part of you, no matter how teeny tiny, that is repentant."

Unconsciously called, the hatchet handle appeared in her grasp, but it morphed back and forth between the weapon and her bridal bouquet. Keeping it on her lap, she tried to inconspicuously wring it in her hands, slowly tearing apart the flowers while simultaneously giving herself a burn on the wood. All the while, she kept steady eye contact with him, lips parted in a thin smile.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He glanced down at the pieces of petals, his own smile unwavering. "Of course, I could always be wrong. Perhaps I try too hard to see the good in everyone." He stood up, and she worried he'd bump his head on the sloping ceiling. She almost warned him, but stopped herself. He ducked aside in time.

"Have a pleasant evening, Ms. Hatchaway." He bowed, and turned to leave, but stopped, not fully turning back. "I'm due in the library in twenty minutes. I'll be reading short stories aloud... There's plenty of room for anyone who wants to attend. I take requests." With that, he finally left.

She looked at the pile of torn stems and flowers in her lap. Maybe she would take a trip downstairs, not for any particular reason, she told herself. The attic just suddenly felt too cramped, that's all. And maybe... maybe she wanted to hear more of that silky, thoughtful voice that didn't insult and jeer her.

Plus she could probably trick him into reading something filthy out loud, and the prospect of that was hilarious enough to get her to go downstairs. It's what he deserved for trying to make her feel better about herself.

[jerkbitchidjitassbutt]

Hope To See You (2 - Fin)

Characters: Jensen x Reader

A/n: Ask and ye shall receive! Here is the second (and final) part to “Hope To See You”. So many wanted a part two, so here it is! Thank you @our-jensen-ackles-love for this little bit of inspiration that now turned into a two part mini series. I needed it. Single!Jensen (kind of set around season 4 in my mind, idk why). Also, I left the reader’s job open, so you can interpret it however you want! Warnings: Embarrassment? Cussing? Jensen being adorable and sexy? Completely un-beta’d, all mistakes are mine. Hooray hurricanes (not!).

Opening your door to the warm Vancouver wind, you took a deep breath before retreating down the stairs to meet the man who had managed to fluster you further in your most fluster-able moment. The incident from yesterday still fresh in your mind, you couldn’t help the flush of your cheeks as you passed the spots where most of your delicates had been scattered the day before. Hell, you spent most of the day pacing in your new apartment from nerves of anticipation.

The flow of your above-the-knee sundress swirled as you bounded down the steps, the heels of your wedges clanking with each footstep. Rounding the bottom platform, where you had first been collided with the green-eyed actor, your heart pounded in your chest, partially wondering if he’d still be meeting you here as he said in his message or if he had changed his mind. It was still a little surprising that he would even hope to get to know you, especially after the compromising situation you had found yourself in.

The man had seen more of the contents of your underwear drawer than even your last serious boyfriend, and not in a good way.

You twirled around the last railing and strolled into the entryway of your building where Jensen was pacing near the revolving door, checking his watch and wringing his hands as you walked towards him. Despite the gentle click of your heels, he had yet to notice you. Taking a chance to ogle from a distance, you took another moment to appreciate how handsome he truly was—in person. You had plenty of chances to view him on screen as you binged half of the first season of Supernatural last night, but it honestly didn’t do him justice to be in front of a camera. In dark wash jeans, boots, and a crisp blue and white plaid shirt, the colors made his skin look generously tanned and his freckles danced in the dim sunlight. His long, bowed legs looked powerful even hidden behind denim and his hair was effortlessly tousled in the most gorgeous way, like he had been recently running his hands through it.

Finally, he took notice of you walking towards him and beamed a dazzling smile that made you go weak in the knees. Literally. You tried to recover quickly as your wedge slipped out from under you on the shiny marble floor, causing your ankle to roll slightly.

Can I be anymore elegant? You thought sarcastically.

Jensen gave a slight chuckle as he hurried towards you, “Are you okay?” he asked, still giggling as you brushed the hair from your face.

“Oh yeah, I’m good. Just being graceful, you know… My mother always said I was grace incarnate, even as a child.”

“Well, its very charming, I must say.” Jensen winked.

You couldn’t help the shaky breath that left you in a huffed laugh, “Okay. Just stop doing that and I may be able to stay upright.”

He flashed a flirtatious smirk and raised his eyebrow, “That’s not much incentive for me to stop, now is it?”

In ever more sophistication, the only response you could manage was a strangled giggle and some fidgeting, mentally reprimanding yourself for being both a bumbling idiot and so ready to just let him to make good on his suggestion.

“I’m just kidding.” Of course you are. Dammit. you thought as he slipped his arm around your waist. “Are you hungry?” he asked, leading you out of the revolving door.

You nodded eagerly, “Starving.”

“Good. I’ve got a great place in mind.”

Jensen ushered you to his sleek, black SUV and opened the door with an exaggerated bow, “My lady.”

Again, all you could do was grin like a fool and mumble a ‘thank you’.

After a short drive of small talk and music in the background, you arrived outside of a small restaurant on the outskirts of the city.

“Do you like Thai?”

Huffing, you replied, “Are you kidding? Its my favorite!”

“Awesome. This place is the best, I promise. The owner just moved here from Thailand two years ago.”

You had faith in his choice. Granted, it was a mom-and-pop restaurant, but in your experience the “hole-in-the-wall” places were always the best.

You hopped out of the car with excitement, “I hope you’re ready to see a girl eat. I don’t hold back when it comes to Thai food.”

He extended his hand towards you as you rounded the front of the car and laced his fingers with yours as you accepted. The simple gesture felt surprisingly familiar but still made your stomach tumble in a fantastic way.

“Oh-ho-ho… are we going to have a contest?” he mused.

“We just might, Ackles.”

Dinner was filled with too much food, enough laughter to make your stomach sore, and more lingering touches than what would be considered just a friendly dinner. He filled you in on the happenings on the set of the show and you both exchanged your histories, everything from childhood to your latest endeavors. It was only your second night in this new life, and it couldn’t have been a better night.

You sat in the passenger’s seat with your hand entwined with Jensen’s as he drove back to your shared apartment building. You loved that he made every excuse to touch you in some way, whether it was holding the door and placing his hand on the small of your back, or grazing your fingers with his as you both reached for the appetizers. You’d always heard of this feeling—the giddy, dizzying type of first date that your friends had bragged about—but you’d never experienced it before.

As Jensen walked you to your door, he slipped his arm from your waist to take your hand in his, “Well, Y/n, thank you for coming out with me tonight.”

“I had a wonderful time. Thank you for asking me.”

“I’d invite you to my place, but I have to get up pretty early. I have to go to work and see this stunning woman with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

You feigned shock, “Oh, really? And who might this girl be? Do I need to kick some ass?”

He laughed. Gosh, you could definitely get used to that sound.

“I don’t know if you’d win, she’s pretty badass.” He stepped closer. “I only just met her yesterday, but…” as he gently tucked a loose strand of curls behind your ear, his fingers grazed the curve of your jaw sensuously, igniting every nerve of your body, “she’s amazing.”

Any witty retort was lost on your lips as he leaned in, softly molding his mouth to yours. Your eyes fluttered shut as you carefully kissed him in return, allowing the warmth of his tongue to seep into you as he licked at your lower lip. His arms snaked tightly around your waist as he tenderly explored you. You couldn’t resist reaching your arms around his broad shoulders and graze your fingers into his hair, conceding to the want and need you felt in that moment.

Slowly, and torturously, he slipped you out of his grasp, tracing the curves of your hips with his hands as he retreated. Your kiss-swollen lips made him want to dive back in the second he laid eyes on them, but he simply raised your hand and planted a lingering kiss to your palm.

“I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait either. Wish me luck on my first day.” You breathed.

“You’ll do amazing. I know it.” He lingered a moment longer before he withdrew and turned towards his own apartment door across from yours, “Sweet dreams, Y/n.”

“Goodnight, Jensen.”

............

One Year Later

“Y/n?” Jensen called from your bedroom. “What this box?”

“Which one?” You questioned from the kitchen.

“Uh, the one with about a pound of tape wrapped around it? Marked, ‘do not drop’ in big bolded letters?”

“Oh.” You replied nonchalantly, waltzing into the doorway. “That’s my lingerie.”

He paused and looked at the box once more before doubling over in laughter. “What?” he asked, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “You don’t want to meet another charming, awesome guy by throwing your bras all over the stairs?”

“No, honey.” You giggled, “You’re the only one that gets to see my knocker lockers from now on.”

He stopped mid-bend as he was about to pick up the box, “You’re—you’re what?!”

“My knocker lockers. You know, tit mits? Flopper stoppers. Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders… My bras, Jensen.”

He stared at you from his squatted position for a moment before breaking out in a grin, “Oh my God, you are so weird.” He chuckled, standing and walking towards you as you leaned against the doorframe.

You shrugged, “Yeah. I know. Are you sure you still want to move in with me?”

He slipped his arms around your waist and pulled you to him, lifting you to wrap your legs around his hips, “Of course, baby. I love every bit of you, even your weirdness.”

With your arms around his shoulders, you pecked his lips and gazed into the greenest eyes you’d ever seen, “Good. Because I love you too.”

“Good.” He replied, laying a swift and playful but gentle smack to your bottom. “Now come on, we’ve got boxes to move. Jared should be here soon to help take another load to the new house.”

You uncrossed your ankles and bounced back to the ground, “Okay. I’m almost done with the last kitchen box. Remember, be careful with that one.” You warned, pointing to the incriminating box in his hands.

“Don't worry. I will.” He smirked.

No sooner did he breeze through your front door did you hear what sounded like a cardboard box tumbling down the stairs, followed by a string of elaborate curse words.

“I told you!” you yelled through the door, seeing Jensen chasing the box onto the second flight.

“Its okay! I got it. I got it!” he triumphantly yelled as he grabbed it, smiling and holding the box above his head for proof.

He continued down the steps, both arms securely wrapped around the package.

You giggled and headed back into your kitchen.

“See?” you said aloud. “That’s why I taped it.”

A/n 2: I consider this an AU, as Jensen is single in this fic. This is completely a work of fiction, and I wouldn’t want his reality to be any different, this is purely for entertainment.

[peachximagines]

Princess Five 2

A/N: This was very delayed and I’m so very sorry, but there will be updates. Also, I am big-ignoring the end of Season 3 because I started this before the season came out and I got some big plans. 

Hopper was livid. I managed to get home by 11:30 but the foreign jacket wrapped around my shoulders reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” Hopper yells. I fidget with the silver zipper. “I let you go out once, Jesus Christ, once and you come back smelling like some boy?” My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. I want to speak but I feel as though I’m being choked. I want to yell that Billy’s not some boy, that he gets me and that the time we talked was the most normalcy I’ve felt since closing that fucking gate. But I didn’t. The words stayed trapped behind the prison bars that was my tongue. I bow my head, staring at my shoes.

“You drank, you were with a boy that was not Steve and you can’t even look at me.” Hopper scoffs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Can’t you see that I have these rules to protect you? Has your time at the cabin not made you realize that?” The mention of the cabin spike in my adrenaline. I can't go back. I look at him, dead in his eyes.

I’m sorry. I think, forcing the thoughts in his mind.

“I know you’re sorry, but sorry isn’t going to keep you safe.” Hopper sits at the table, the light hovering over us in an unflattering light. “Just go to bed.” I nod, leaving the small cramped kitchen. The hallway was a labyrinth as I snailed my way to my room. The effects of the alcohol weighing on my body as if I was being pulled deeper into the ground. The yellowing wallpaper taunts me, never-ending. Before I could process time or my own movements, I was pushing open my door. The twin-sized bed tucked in the corner of the room seems like heaven. Taking my cement heavy body across the room, I make the trek. The blankets consume me, letting me be absorbed into the beautiful mattress. I hope for a sleepless night but I dream of Billy and I’s conversation.

“You just move here?” The fire cast a beautiful warm glow over Billy’s skin. He was golden, laying beside me. I nod, my hands seemingly more interesting than the Adonis in front of me. The lead muscle in my mouth prevents speech.

“You really don’t talk?” Billy asks, taking another swig from the dangerous poison. I nod, again. “The strength in your neck must be insane with all the nodding you do.” A joke. I giggle before covering my mouth. The noise was an accident and it felt wrong coming from me. But Billy loved it. His eyes lit up, the fire dancing in his light eyes.

“I got a noise out of you, princess.” He whoops loudly, gaining the annoyed attention of a nearby couple. I cover my face with both hands, shaking my head furiously trying to prevent the overflow of giggles that threaten to flood the sound barrier.

“C’mon, I wanna hear another noise. You make the prettiest noises, princess,” his voice was lower, closer to me. I couldn’t see him but I knew he was smirking. The intent behind his words wasn’t the same as the meaning. I feel the same fire in my belly as I did earlier. His close proximity just added to the fire. I know now, it’s not from the alcohol.

“What’s your name? I can keep calling you ‘princess’ but that’s not only your birth certificate.” I knew this would come up. I stick my hand out and stretch out my fingers. Five. I will him to hear me. The telepathy was a new discovery, one that I hope to master.

“Your name is Five? Like the number?” he laughs loudly. It comes out in waves, each one stronger than the one before. I wring my hands, squeezing them tight. I wish I lied. Billy’s laughter died off. He sighed, leaning back against the rocks.

“Shit, I’m sorry, princess. Five’s a badass name.” Billy leans his head against my shoulder. “Badass just like you.”

“Five,” A stern voice stands over me. A dull pain drums in my head. Nothing that I haven’t experienced, still unsettling. “I have an Advil and some water for you downstairs. Get up and come to the kitchen. We need to talk.” Hopper turns away, leaving the door to my room wide. I peek out the window, the sun barely making its own appearance. The sky a dull gray, representing my whole mood. I slink out of bed, leaving the warmth and the smell of Billy. I look at the jacket tucked underneath my pillow. How can I get it back to him? I shake my thoughts away, the dull pain turning into a constant throb now that I’m vertical. I drag my feet down the hallway. I heard the clinking of metal spoons coming in contact with ceramic bowls. I half-assedly take a box of cereal from the fridge.

“You’re gonna learn to use your arms and not your powers,” Hopper grumbles, placing a bowl in front of me. I reach across the table, clutching the cool gallon of milk. It felt wrong.

“You do what you did last night again and it’s back to the cabin, do you understand me?” I nod vigorously. “I can’t protect you if you’re out getting drunk with some rich teenage nobodies. You don’t have the pleasure of being able to do shit like that.” I nod again, swallowing down the cereal. I’m sorry. I push the thought, but it felt like nails scratching a chalkboard. I flinch.

“Advil, water and more food,” I smile. “I love you kid, I swear I’m trying to protect you.” I nod again. Of course Hopper, I believe you.

“On a lighter note,” Hopper slurps the milk from his bowl. “We have to go shopping today, you need school clothes.” I jump from my chair, my headache pushed to the back burner. The long-awaited battle and anger from being cooped up are finally over. Thank you, thank you I love you, thank you. Hopper laughs. I wrap my arms around him tight, almost knocking his bowl of cereal tasting milk off the table. He returned the favor, the strong tobacco smell laced into his clothes. Just like Billy’s.

“I think you are the only kid in America excited about school.” I shake my head. The Party likes school. “And I told you not everyone is like them, kiddo.” I agree. They’re better than everyone else.

“When do I get dressed? Can we leave now?” I shove the questions at him, forcing through the could of pain-blocking them.

“Shower, then we can leave.” I have never run so fast.

The mall was packed to the brim. Pink flyers advertising Valentine’s Day were in every window.

“What is Valentine’s Day?” Hopper raises an eyebrow at me.

“Did you not learn about holidays at the lab?” I shake my head, suddenly feeling embarrassed. I bet every teenage knew what this pink and red holiday was.

“It’s basically love day. It’s reserved for couples but friends do stuff for it too.”

“You and Joyce?” I inquire, out of genuine curiosity. Hopper clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Something like that, kid.” I nod, smiling softly at the thought. “It’s coming up next month so the stores have to shove the sentiment down single folks throats.” It sounded a little bitter but I didn’t question further. Hopper keeps a watchful eye on both me and our surrounds. Surveying for threats as if I couldn’t sense them. Dustin said they’re my Spidey senses. You’re Five-y senses! He had exclaimed, very proud of himself. The mall bustle seemed to overwhelm the sheriff more than I.

“We’re okay, Hop. We’re okay.” I urge, tapping three times on his knuckles. The muscles in his slack slightly and his shoulders give. I offer him a smile.

“Love you more.”

We continue our trek through the crowds, getting a couple of outfits that would fit me better than Hopper’s old clothes and Nancy’s hand me downs. I point to the pretzel cart, dragging Hopper with me as he groaned.

“You’re trying to fatten me up, aren’t you?” He jokes, reaching into his pocket to grab his wallet.

“You did that before I came along,” I respond, bumping my shoulder into his. Hopper laughs loudly, seemingly at nothing. A bored-looking teen slides us the cholesterol destroying delights. I smile, hoping that they could feel a little dosage of happiness but not even my powers could help this teen. I’m distracted from my minor failure when I catch a glimpse of recognizable blonde. Hargrove. He has his arm around some giggling girl and they’re surrounded by pairs in similar positions. Hargrove gives girl next to him a wink, before standing and walking towards the restrooms.

“Bathroom,” I tell Hopper before shoving the pretzel in his hand and taking off. I try to focus on Hargrove’s beautiful figure in a sea of people. People block my way with no care about my passing. They give me dirty looks as I try to sneak through the slim spaces they create to get to my destination. I finally emerge from the labyrinth of people but I can’t find him. I frown, searching the crowd but he is nowhere to be seen. I walk towards the bathroom and find a water fountain. I lean over to take deep sips, disappointed in my behavior. Searching for a boy I barely know like some love-struck puppy. Disgusting. If Papa knew how I was acting, it would be the worst punishments. I’m pulled from my thoughts when my Five-y senses pick up on an approaching person. My pores open, my hair standing on edge as my blood runs seemingly cold.

“Well, well, well. Isn't this a beautiful surprise?” Hargrove. I wipe the excess water from my lips hurriedly. I try to smile like a pretty girl. “Hey, Five.” He leans next to the water fountain. Even in the most horrid of lighting he still seems to glow. It wasn’t from the warm fire last night, it was just him. I wave.

“One day I’m going to want to hear you say my name, beautiful,” he approaches me. “Say it for me, babe. Just once.” I feel like all the air has left my lungs. I want to say it but I can’t. Hargrove doesn’t seem to be disappointed though. He strokes my cheek softly. “I saw you looking at me when you were with the sheriff. Am I just that pretty?” I feel my cheeks warm and I open and close my mouth like a fish out of water. He was being bold, maybe I needed to be too. I nodded. He liked that. A lot.

“You know what, princess?” he leans over pressing his lips against my ear, “I think you’re really pretty too. The prettiest girl in this shit hole town to be honest.” I feel goosebumps disperse across my skin. I felt a need like I have never before but I didn’t know what. I swallow, loud enough that he could definitely hear.

“You’re so shy and innocent, Princess Five,” he rests a hand on my waist. The unknown feeling intensifies and I feel dizzy. “I wanna change that so bad.” I nod, not knowing what I was agreeing to. “But only for me. I want everyone to see you as this innocent little thing but I want you to be naughty for me.” He presses a kiss to my jaw before backing away. I want to pull him back towards me.

“I’ll be at the quarries tonight around midnight. Just me. I hope to see you there.” I nod again, the only thing I seem to be able to do.

[shivae]

Post Movie Canon

Roland has two of the most beautiful daughters in the land, so perfect and innocent... then there are these two boys his daughters didn't warn him about standing on his doorstep to take them away from him and do who knows what to them.

Notes:

For TigressDreamer. Inspired by conversation with TigressDreamer

Chapter 1

: Part 1

Roland stood, staring at the two teenaged boys in his doorway.  They were both good-looking young men, dressed in identical ivory white tunics, trimmed in gold over dark brown pants.  They regarded him shyly, each holding a lovely corsage in their hands.

One was Roland's height, the other a head shorter.  The tall one was the one that concerned Roland the most.  A crown of leaves adorned his head in a single row and behind it was a shock of short auburn hair.  The boy's eyes were a startling shade of blue and one that sent Roland's stomach churning.

This boy was Cadeyrn, eldest son of King Bog and Queen Marianne, the crown prince.  A hybrid of his parents with all of their best qualities and features rolled into one awkward adolescent who had come here to prey upon one of Roland's beautiful daughters, maybe both of them.  Roland wasn't sure what was going on.  He ignored the other boy, Prince Aurelius?  He had an odd name.  The second prince was handsome, with dark skin, a freckled face and soft features.  The golden blond hair on his head rivaled Roland's.

"Daddy!"  Prim put a hand on her father's shoulder and tried to push him aside.  "Let them come inside!"

"You're making them nervous," giggled the second girl, her cheeks bright red.

Roland scowled and gestured inside.  His beautiful daughters were identical twins, both as perfect as he was, with flawless skin and beautiful features.  They shared his green eyes and perfect blond hair.  Prim wore her hair short and Rose's locks were shoulder length waves of gold.

"Good evening, Prim."  Cadeyrn bowed politely to her, offering her the red rose corsage in his hand.  The boy's wings rose, showing off the brilliant blue shading that came from his mother, dissolving into clear transparent glass below them.  His wings were shorter than his father's and edged like his mother's.  It was a disgusting combination.

"Oh, thank you, Cadeyrn!"  Prim gushed, swishing her golden dress around her, holding out her hand.  Roland scowled, watching the filthy half blood boy touching his daughter's hand.

Aurelius moved nervously beside his cousin, standing in front of the beautiful blushing Rose, her cheeks matching the pink of the dress she wore.  "Good evening, Rose."  The boy's voice cracked and his golden wings shivered.  Another half-blood, his wings were an off color, brilliant gold with flecks of brown and spots of white.

Roland's daughters did not tell him who they were going to the Spring Ball with, just that they were invited by two high ranking young men.  It never crossed Roland's mind that his two daughters would go with princes.  Boys were one thing.  But these two were the children of the most awful family in the fairy Kingdom.  Worse, they were boys, and they were boys here for his daughters.  His beautiful, sweet, innocent daughters.

"Daddy?"  Rose turned her sweet head to look at him and pout, "Can't you be nice?"

"Of course, Dear."  Roland turned his charming smile onto them.  "Have a good evening, keep your hands to yourself, because I will hunt you down and kill both of you in your sleep if you touch them.  Have them home immediately after the dance.  Have a good time.  I will kill you both if you touch them."

The four teenagers stared at Roland, who had a forced grin on his face that made him look crazy.

"Daddy."  Prim snapped, waving a finger into her father's face.  "This is why we didn't tell you who it was, now stop threatening them.  They're gentlemen."  She turned to Cadeyrn, offering him her arm.  "Let's go."  The boy swallowed, glancing at Roland who made a knifing motion across his throat.  He nodded and took Prim's hand, wobbling a little as he walked.

"Bye, Daddy!"  Rose bounced after her sister with Aurelius running after her, trying to keep her between him and her scary father.

"Is he always like that?"  Cadeyrn whispered to Prim.  "My mom and dad tell stories…."

"He doesn't like boys," grumbled Prim.  "It's like he thinks you're going to drag us off into the forest and do naughty things to us."

"Oh, no, never."  Cadeyrn took the comment seriously.  "We're just going to have dinner and dance."

"I was looking forward to the forest and the naughty things, Cade," giggled Prim.  Cadeyrn turned bright red and his hands trembled.  "I'm joking, Cade.  Please, relax, you're always so nervous!"

"You're so beautiful, Prim,"  Cadeyrn grinned, showing off his misaligned teeth, something Prim thought was adorable.  It was just how he smiled, a little lopsided with those beautiful blue eyes gleaming.  "I can't help but tremble in your presence."  Prim laughed and hugged her date's arm.

"Is he going to follow us?"  Aurelius glanced over his shoulder.

"Stop looking back, Aurelius!"  Rose whispered, clutching his arm.  "Pretty sure he is, so just act normal.  It's not like we're doing anything he thinks we're doing, whatever that is."

Aurelius groaned, wiping a hand over his head.  "We already have Aunt Marianne and dad following us.  What's going to happen when they run into each other?  Are they going to cause a scene??"

"If they do, it'll teach them a lesson they'll never forget!"  Rose giggled, bouncing next to her date.

"The girls have been picked up."  Marianne scowled, crouching in a nearby tree.  She was outfitted in black and whispering down to Sunny, who stood on a lower branch.  "They are really dressed up!  Wow, they're hugging our boys and all over them!"

"What?!"  Sunny bounced on the limb, wringing his hands.  "They need to get their hands off of my son.  I don't think he even knows what to do with a girl, oh, what are they going to do to them if they get them alone!"

"We're not going to let that happen," hissed Marianne, dropping out of the tree.  "Come on, we know where they're going.  I'll stick to the rooftops, you watch from the ground."

Dawn whirled around in front of Bog.  She had done it half a dozen times now, sending her white, gold trimmed dress flying around her each time.  A trio of little girls with hair ranging from blond to dark brown followed her, spinning in their little pink dresses.    The three of them were 4, 7, and 12 years of age and every bit as bouncy as Dawn and into constant trouble.  Right now, they were blurs of color.

Bog sighed, standing with his youngest boy, a ten-month-old who looked more like him than Marianne in his left arm.  The boy was actively bouncing and trying to squirm out of his father's grip, twitching his short wings.  Two girls flanked Bog, tall and stately, one with Marianne's brown eyes, the other with his blue.  Like their eldest brother, they were a strong mix of both of them in different ways.  One had far more natural armoring than the other.  They had short haircuts, one brown and one black and they wore the same style of dress, but one was yellow and the other orange.

"Go on, go play," rumbled Bog, motioning to Dawn.  With delighted squeals, the two girls dashed after their slightly shorter cousins and joined in the rampant unladylike spinning.  Bog leaned on his staff, scanning the hall for any signs of his wife.  All he saw were fairies and elves dancing to the music.

"Have you seen Sunny?"  Dawn bounced in front of Bog, reaching up to poke baby Boggy as she called him.  The boy laughed and reached for her.

"No, I have not.  And I haven't seen Marianne either."  Bog tilted his arm, dropping his boy into Dawn's open arms.  She giggled and hugged him tightly while he squealed in laughter and grabbed for her hair.  "It troubles me."

"I love babies so much!"  Dawn whirled around, spinning the boy in the air as she did.  "I want to have so many more!"

"Ye already got more than me and Marianne," grunted Bog.  "Come to think of it, where's Aiden?"

"Oh, come on, you love babies just as much as I do!"  Dawn giggled, stopping to cradle Boggy in her arms.

"Yes, but I'm not the one carrying them for 6 months until they're born," grumbled Bog.  "Plus, Marianne is a nightmare when she's pregnant and you know that."  Then he smiled.  "Although, there are some perks."

"Hmm, Aiden was supposed to be here."  Dawn bounced the baby in her arms, making him squeal with laughter.

[cupcakezys]

Four Days To Fall In Love.

I recently fell back into the Merlin fandom, and this is a little something I’ve been working on ever since, so I hope you enjoy! A soulmate au, but with a little twist. Inspired by Strike of Lightning by helloearthlings.

Part Four of Four. Previous.

Read on AO3.

The sequel is up! Read it here. :)

Pairings: Arthur/Merlin, Gwen/Morgana.

Summary: In a world where everyone has a soulmate (or two or three), Arthur Pendragon knows he is destined to be alone. For Arthur can see his heartstring, could follow it to where his soulmate lived, and that could only mean one thing. His soulmate had magic, and should they ever meet, Arthur would have to kill them.

Red.

Arthur strode into the throne room with as much confidence as he could. Truthfully, he was still reeling from the meeting with his soulmate. Merlin. Arthur glanced down at his wrist. His heartstring danced around him, red-gold and free in a way it hadn’t been since Merlin arrived in Camelot. He grinned.

“Arthur.” His father greeted, and Arthur realised he had no idea why he had been summoned.

“Father.” Arthur nodded, then took the seat next to the king.

Morgana glanced at him from his father’s other side, and Gwen’s gaze burned a hole in the side of his head. He nodded to both of them, then turned his attention to the knight kneeling before the throne.

“Report.” His father commanded.

Sir Bedivere stood, a grim look on his face. “The earthquake shook the castle and the surrounding town, my lord, but thankfully no one was injured. An old abandoned house in the lower town collapsed, but otherwise all the buildings stood firm. The lightning, however, set three houses alight. Our men are working with the townspeople now to get the blaze under control.”

Arthur stared at the knight in shock. Earthquake? Lightning? What where they talking about? Arthur hadn’t noticed anything like that. Of course, he was a little bit occupied, what with officially meeting his soulmate. Arthur’s eyes widened.

Their first touch.

Arthur couldn’t remember much except the explosive, wonderful, brilliant feeling of home and rightness their first touch had brought about, but he did remember the distant sound of thunder, of a rumble beneath his feet. He paled, and tried to look inconspicuous as his father barked orders at his men.

How powerful was Merlin, that their first touch rattled the earth and the sky both, that the whole city of Camelot was affected?

Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, because in truth he didn’t know if he’d be more in awe of his soulmate, or terrified.

Morgana caught his gaze, and in that instant, he knew she had figured it out. Her eyes widened and she glanced to Gwen, who already had a hand over her mouth. Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat, and when both women looked at him again, he nodded slightly. Morgana abruptly sat back in her chair, eye ahead and focused even as Arthur knew she wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to their surroundings.

His father dismissed all those that were not on his council, and the room quickly emptied. Morgana and Gwen were the last ones to leave, both of them shooting him an incomprehensible look before the doors shut behind them.

His father launched himself up off his throne and paced. Arthur watched him, saw the fury barely contained underneath the surface. The council members all shifted nervously, and Arthur saw Gaius briefly glance to the door.

“Sire.” One of the council members finally spoke. “Do you believe this to be an attack?”

Several of the men shifted uncomfortably. Gaius started at his father, and Arthur followed his gaze. The King’s eyes were furious and cold, but there was a knowing look there, one that instantly made Arthur’s stomach drop.

“No, this was no attack.” His father growled. “We all know what happened. An extremely powerful sorcerer has found their soulmate.”

Gasps filled the room, and Arthur stepped forward, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “How can we be sure?”

His father turned to him. “I know you weren’t around when sorcerers were allowed to use their magic freely, but this type of thing used to be commonplace. Everyone knew when a sorcerer and their soulmate had their first touch. The nature of magic would not let them miss the chance to announce their evil to the world.”

The image of Merlin, with his messy black hair and quick wit, standing tall as an evil sorcerer was incomprehensible.

“I’ve never seen a reaction this extreme before.” Someone muttered, and several others agree.

“Gaius.” The king snapped. “How powerful would this sorcerer be?”

Gaius shifted, glancing from Arthur to his father. “I couldn’t tell you for sure sire.” He hesitated and said tentatively. “But I would assume, whoever they are, they’re more powerful than any other sorcerer we have seen before.”

Arthur stared at Gaius. Several council members shifted nervously, while the rest looked panicked. His father was fuming, pacing in front of the throne as he tried to figure out a way to draw out the sorcerer and their soulmate, so he could put an end to them both before they could cause any harm.

Arthur heard the crackle of flames, and for the first time, it wasn’t Morgana and Gwen he saw on the pyre. It was Merlin, shackled and tied down, with Arthur himself tied up next to him, while his father watched from high above impassively.

Arthur did his best to shake the image away, but he could feel his hands trembling.

“Arthur!” His father snapped, and his heart kept to his throat.

“Yes father?” He asked, only sounding slightly strained.

His father’s eyes softened a fraction. “I know it will be a difficult task, but I want you to take your knights and search both the castle and the town. I want everyone to be thoroughly searched. We cannot allow this sorcerer to roam free.”

Arthur swallowed, and inclined his head. “Of course father. With your leave, I will start the investigation right away.”

His father waved a hand, and Arthur bowed before swiftly exiting the room. He walked as fast as he could, away from the people milling about in the corridors, and straight to his room. He needed to get his sword, and change into his armour, but most importantly of all he needed to get away from everyone. He yanked the door to his room open and slammed it behind him.

“Are you going to tell us what happened, or are we going to have to wring it out of you?”

Arthur jumped and spun around, a yell caught in his throat. Morgana sat by his fireplace, her arms crossed and eyes trained on him. Gwen stood next to her, an arm around Morgana’s shoulders. Arthur looked away from the both, sighed, and dropped himself down in a chair across from Morgana. Gwen sat on the arm of Morgana’s chair, and both of them stared at him in expectation.

Arthur sighed again, and melted into his chair. “It was us.”

Morgana stared at him. “What.”

“The earthquake, and the lightning.” Arthur swallowed, thinking again of the power his soulmate must have. “It was our first touch.”

Gwen gasped. Morgana simply nodded, as if her suspicions had just been confirmed. She demanded details, and Arthur told her what had happened as quickly as possible. He was aware of every second passing by, knowing he needed to leave and inform the knights of the king’s orders as soon as possible.

Finally Morgana was satisfied. “And how was it?”

Arthur frowned. “How was what?”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “Your first touch.”

Arthur grinned, and knew he looked like a love-struck girl, but found that he didn’t really care. “It was perfect.”

Gwen nodded, a sparkle in her eyes. “We told you it was worth the risk.”

Arthur let the happiness bubble inside him for a moment longer, and then he was up and out of his chair. “Speaking of the risk, I need to hurry and find the knights. My father has commanded we search the castle and lower town for the sorcerer and their soulmate.”

Morgana frowned. “Does he suspect...?”

“That it’s my soulmate?” Arthur grimaced. “I don’t think so. Nothing he said or did indicated he suspected me.”

Gwen bit her lip in worry. “You have to be careful.”

Morgana nodded. “You can’t lose him.”

Arthur swallowed hard, flames echoing in the back of his mind. “I know.”

 Gold.

Merlin wasn’t quite sure what was happening, but Gaius had looked worried ever since he got back from whatever meeting the king had called, and he had refused to talk to Merlin about anything yet. It was slowly driving him mad. He needed answers.

Abruptly, Gaius turned to him. “Did you meet your soulmate?”

Merlin nearly fell out of his chair. “What? What makes you ask that?”

Gaius raised an eyebrow and Merlin fought not to shy away like a naughty child. “Because that lighting and earthquake were caused by a magic user’s first touch, and I can only think of one particular person with enough magic to cause this powerful a reaction.”

Merlin ducked his head. “I didn’t know it would be that obvious.”

Gaius quickly sat on the chair next to him and put one hand on his shoulder. “You have more magic potential than anyone else I have ever seen. Of course it was going to be obvious. Quite frankly I’d be surprised if it had been anything less than what it was.”

Merlin nodded, staring at his hands. He picked at the bandages of his left hand and his heartstring fluttered around his fingers. He grinned, the red and gold of it still new but also perfect.

“You do not have to tell me who it is.” Gaius said quietly, making Merlin look up at him. “But whoever they are, you need to keep them safe. Uther has commanded the entire castle and lower town be searched, and if they find nothing then I have no doubt he will expand his search all over Camelot. Prince Arthur himself will be leading the investigation, and he will not stop until he finds you both. It is not in his nature to give up.”

Merlin nodded, but he was distracted. Arthur would be leading the investigation. On the one hand, it meant Merlin was safe. His soulmate wasn’t about to lead his men to him and turn them both in. On the other hand, Merlin knew it would be hard for Arthur to pretend. He seemed very noble, from what Merlin had seen and heard of him, and he knew how hard lying to a parent was.

Still, there was nothing else they could do. Not if they both wanted to survive.

“We’ll be careful Gaius.” He glanced up, then down again. “I’ll ask if he would be alright with you knowing who he is.”

“He?” Gaius teased, and laughed at Merlin’s flustered stammering. “It’s alright my boy. I would like that very much.”

Gaius stood up again and they fell into an easy silence as he worked. Merlin tried his best to help, bottling potions and labelling them as best he could with his bandaged hands. Then Gaius started packing up, and he turned to Merlin, a smile on his face.

Merlin tilted his head, putting down the bottle he was holding. “What?”

“I just had a thought.” Gaius said. “Would you like to join me at the feast tonight?”

 Red

Arthur sighed, trying to keep up with the conversation happening around him. There was so much noise, it was hard to keep track of what was being said. Normally it wouldn’t be a problem at all, Arthur had long ago gotten used to feasts and the sound of hundreds of conversations happening at once, but tonight his mind was occupied.

He hadn’t seen Merlin since the guard had informed him of his father’s summons. He had spent the rest of the afternoon leading his men around the lower town, trying and failing to find any sign of the sorcerer. Arthur, of course, knew exactly why that was, but his men had been frustrated that after hours of searching they had found nothing. His father was still furious, and Arthur thought he might have called off the feast entirely so they could focus entirely on the search.

Lady Helen had been the one to convince him otherwise, and Arthur had been grateful. He hadn’t fancied spending all night searching for a sorcerer he knew he wouldn’t find. He didn’t envy the guards and knights that had been ordered to continue the search.

Something shifted in the air, and Arthur spotted his heartstring dancing in the air, twisting and wiggling as if it were excited. As Arthur watched, the doors to the hall were opened, and Gaius was welcomed in. And there, not two steps behind him, was Merlin.

Arthur grinned without meaning to, especially as he watched Merlin’s eyes trail around the room until he found Arthur staring at him. They locked eyes for a long moment, and then Arthur carefully excused himself from the knights laughing and joking around him. Merlin smiled at Gaius and seemed to bid him farewell, heading towards where Arthur was standing.

Arthur was leaning against the wall casually when Merlin finally caught up to him. They stood side by side, not looking or touching, and Arthur relaxed.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here. Are you sure you should be walking around?”

Merlin snorted. “I’m not some delicate girl you know. I’m fine. Gaius said it would help me to be out of the tower.”

“Well, if you fall again, I’m not catching you.”

Merlin laughed. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Only until you do something even stupider.” Arthur teased.

“Prat.” Merlin muttered, and Arthur grinned at him.

A hush seemed to fall over the room, and both men looked up in time to see as Morgana entered the room. Arthur’s eyes widened when he saw what she was wearing.

“God have mercy.” He whispered.

Merlin nodded next to him, his eyes just as wide. “Does she always dress like that?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “She must be showing off.”

“For who?”

Gwen, Arthur almost said, and only stopped himself at the last second. “Her soulmate, of course.”

“She knows who her soulmate is?” Merlin sounded shocked.

“Not so loud!” Arthur glanced around, grateful people had started talking again. “But yes. She does.”

Merlin grinned. “That’s fantastic! Who…?”

Arthur shrugged and started walking towards Morgana. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.” He could see Gwen close behind her.

Merlin followed next to him, and whispered so quietly Arthur almost missed it. “Is she the one you told me about? The one that… changed your mind?”

“Yes.” Arthur whispered. “I’m going to tell her. About us.”

Merlin gulped, but nodded. “Alright.”

They reached the ladies, and Arthur smiled at them both. “Morgana. Gwen. You’re both looking well.”

Morgana grinned. “Why thank you Arthur.” She held her arms out and twisted from side to side, showing off her dress. “What do you think.”

“Beautiful.” Arthur said. “And capable of grabbing the attention of every man in the room.”

Morgana pulled a face. “How unfortunate for them that I don’t want any of their attention.”

Arthur snorted, and grinned at Gwen. “Very unfortunate.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Morgana decided she wanted to wear something that would blow everyone away. Luckily, I had this made a few weeks back.”

Morgana took one of Gwen’s hands and squeezed before quickly letting go. “And it’s lovely Gwen. As always.” Then her gaze shifted to slightly behind Arthur and she raised an eyebrow. “Hello again Merlin.”

Arthur blinked in surprise, turning to Merlin. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

Merlin smiled and ducked his head a little. “I delivered her sleeping potion a few nights ago. Gwen helped me find my way after I got lost.” At this he sent a meaningful glance Arthur’s way. “Hello again my lady. Gwen.”

“It’s good to see you Merlin.” Gwen smiles, then frowned in concern. “I heard about your fall. Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine!” Merlin grinned and waved his hands. “Just a few scrapes and bruises.”

Arthur snorted. “And a serious head wound.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I’m fine Arthur.”

Morgana was eyeing them both with suspicious eyes, and when she turned to Arther he knew what she would ask. “How did you meet Merlin, Arthur?”

Arthur smiled, and with a nod from Merlin, said. “We actually met a few days ago. Although, we hadn’t seen each other face to face until earlier today.”

Gwen gasped, a hand going to her mouth. Arthur knew what she wanted to ask and nodded. Morgana grinned, first at him then at Merlin, and nodded back.

“Well, I think we should leave you two. I’m sure you have much to talk about.” Morgana stepped closer to whisper softly. “Congratulations.”

Gwen stepped forward and winked. “Have fun you two. And please be careful.”

Arthur watched them both disappear into the crowd. That had gone well. He shot a grin to Merlin, then suddenly thought of something. He leaned closer so he could whisper directly to him.

“Is there anyone you want to tell?”

Merlin looked surprised at first, then bit his lip in a truly adorable way. “There are some people. My mother and Will, for starters, and…” he hesitated, then continued. “My teacher.”

His magic teacher. “Of course. Who is it? I may know them.”

Merlin shifted and glanced around the room. “Gaius.”

“Gaius!” Arthur’s eyes widened, and he almost took a step back in shock. “Gaius is teaching you… that?”

“How to control it, yes.” Merlin was staring at him now, slight worry on his face. “He’s the one that gave me the book.”

“Oh.” Arthur said, because there wasn’t much else he could say to that. “I didn’t know.”

“About him?”

He nodded. “That he had that type of… knowledge.” They fell into silence before Arthur shook it off and stepped forward. “Shall we go find him then?”

“Now?” Merlin asked.

“Yes. The food is about to be brought out. We won’t get the chance to talk again until tomorrow after that.”

“Okay.” Merlin fell into step beside him, eyes scanning for his mentor.

It didn’t take hem long to find him. He was standing on his own, seemingly content watching as everyone passed him by.

“Gaius!” Merlin called, and shoved past a knight that was blocking his way. The knight turned to yell at whoever had touched him, but one look from Arthur and he was turning back around without a word. “There you are.”

“Merlin, my boy.” Gaius greeted, then bowed his head as Arthur stepped up beside them. “Sire.”

“Gaius.” Arthur returned.

“There’s something I want to tell you.” Merlin said, then frowned. “Well, kind of.”

Gaius glanced at Arthur, then focused on Merlin. “What is it?”

Merlin licked his lips, clearly nervous, and Arthur couldn’t help but follow the movement with his eyes. “You said, earlier, that you wanted to meet- well, you know.”

Gaius stiffened, and shot Arthur another glance, so he stepped forward and smiled. “As it turns out, we already know each other.”

Gaius frowned, uncomprehending, before his eyes widened, and he glanced between the two of them. “You mean to say…?”

“Yes.” Arthur said.

Gaius looked stunned, and Arthur wanted to laugh. It wasn’t often someone surprised the physician into speechlessness. After a moment he seemed to get ahold of himself, and he looked at both men meaningfully.

“We are going to have to have a proper talk about this.” He said, then smiled. “But I am happy for you both.”

“Thank you.” Merlin said.

At that moment the king called for the beginning of the feast. Arthur bid Merlin and Gaius goodbye and made his way to the royal table. His father nodded to him stiffly, and Arthur nodded back. Morgana grinned from Uther’s other size, and Arthur smiled at her. His father raised a hand and the room fell silent.

“We have enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity. It has brought the kingdom and myself many pleasures, but few can compare with the honour of introducing Lady Helen of Mora.” His father smiled and gestured for Lady Helen to start as he sat down.

Everyone sat with the king. Arthur saw Gaius sit with the other councillors, Merlin nowhere to be found. Arthur looked around, following his heartstring, until he spotted him standing at the edge of the room with the servants. He rose an eyebrow at him and got a raised eyebrow back. Arthur grinned and then very deliberately looked at his goblet, then at the spare wine pitcher on the table next to Merlin.

Merlin rolled his eyes, but grinned and grabbed the pitcher.

 Gold.

Merlin resisted the urge to roll his eyes again as Arthur downed his entire goblet, rudely ignoring the Lady Helen as she began to sing. Merlin slipped between two serving girls whispering to each other against the wall, dodged the suspicious gaze of a guard and finally made it to the royal table.

It was then that Merlin noticed something was wrong. He felt drowsy, even a little dizzy, where mere seconds ago he had been wide awake. A quick glance around the room showed him that he wasn’t the only one. Several people already looked like they were about to fall asleep, with one noble already face first in his bowl of soup.

Lady Helen’s song rose, and Merlin dropped the pitcher of wine he had been holding. He covered his ears, trying to block out the sound as much as he could. His magic spurred to action, driven by his fear, and the world went quiet. The silence was eerie, and was only made worst as cobwebs started to appear over the sleeping forms of everyone in the room.

From his position behind the royal table it was easy to see as Lady Helen strode forward. With a cold jolt of fear, Merlin realised her gaze was focused solely on Arthur. She raised her hand, and Merlin knew he would have to act fast if he wanted to stop whatever it was she was doing.

He looked around, needing something, anything, that could help him. His eyes darted over the chandelier and then back again. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated, thinking fall fall fall, before a snap filled the air and Merlin watched as the chandelier fell on the Lady Helen.

Arthur was the first to stir. Gradually, everyone woke up, looking around in confusion at the cobwebs now covering them. Merlin looked for Gaius and Gwen, made sure they were both unharmed, and then turned his attention back to Arthur. He had stood up, along with his father, and was staring at the crushed form of Lady Helen.

Merlin followed his gaze and his eyes widened in horror.

The crumpled form trapped under the chandelier was not the form of the lovely Lady Helen. Instead, Merlin recognised the face of the old woman from days before, the one that had sworn revenge against Uther for executing her son.

She hauled herself up, and Merlin caught the glint of a knife in her hands seconds before it was flying through the air, straight towards Arthur’s chest.

Merlin yelled, and time slowed around him. He didn’t hesitate. He ran to Arthur’s side, one eye on the knife slowly spinning forwards. Merlin grabbed Arthur around the shoulders and shoved, pushing them both down as time sped up again. Arthur’s arms snapped around him, and for a moment they both lay still.

Then Arthur was pushing him away and scrambling to his feet, and Merlin flailed as he too tried to stand. When he finally found his feet it was to find the entire room staring at him, including one King Uther Pendragon.

“You saved my boy’s life.” Uther said, full of disbelief like he couldn’t believe it despite having seen it himself.

“O-oh, well.” Merlin gulped, and tried not to glance at Arthur.

“Don’t be so modest.” Uther said, finally getting over his shock. “You shall be rewarded.”

Merlin shook his head, wishing he could just sink through the floor. “No, honestly, you don’t have to Your Highness.” This time, he couldn’t help the way his eyes fluttered to Arthur. “I had to do what I could to save the Prince.”

Uther shook his head, a smile appearing on his face. It made Merlin even more uncomfortable. “No, absolutely. This merits something quite special.”

Merlin fidgeted, and decided arguing with the king was probably not a good idea. “Well…”

“You shall be rewarded a position in the royal household.” Uther announced. “You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

Merlin blinked, and turned to Arthur. His soulmate’s shocked eyes met his, and for a moment Merlin was completely lost in their blue. Then Uther moved, and the room erupted into applause. Arthur clapped him on the back, hard, and Merlin almost landed on the ground again. Arthur laughed as he flailed, and steadied him with a hand to his arm. He squeezed quickly and let go, and then Uther was barking out orders and Merlin was swept away to help clean up the mess the sorceress had made.

 Red.

Arthur entered his room late that night, after hours of discussion with his father and the council members. His father had been furious that Mary Collins had managed to infiltrate the castle, and had wanted to make steps to prevent anything like it happening again.

Arthur had had to bite his tongue several times, knowing his father wouldn’t take his suggestion of stopping the persecution magic users very well.

Arthur closed the door to his rooms and sighed, slumping in place as the events of the day caught up with him. It took everything in him not to collapse and sleep where he stood. He swayed on his feet and grumbled as he headed towards the bed.

“What kind of a reward is being your manservant?”

Arthur smiled. “It’s a huge honour. Most servants have to spend years in service before they’re awarded such a position.”

Merlin grinned from his position on the floor by the fire. “Ah yes, it’s such an honour to wash your socks.”

Arthur laughed and dropped down beside him, hovering close but not touching. “And repair my armour, clean my boots-”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Yes, I get it.”

“-sweep my fireplace, exercise my dogs, muck out my stables-”

“What!” Merlin squeaked, and shoved his arm. “I am not doing that!”

Arthur laughed, and pulled Merlin into his arms. Merlin frowned for a second more, and then melted against him. Arthur sighed, content.

“I’m going to have to write to my mother about you.” Merlin mumbled. “And to Will.”

Arthur hummed, running his hand up and down Merlin’s back. “I can send them any letters the next time a messenger comes through. They’re in Ealdor, right?” Merlin nodded. “I’d like to visit one day. Meet them.”

Merlin pulled back, looking at him in surprise. “Really?”

Arthur shrugged. “You’re my soulmate. Is it really so strange that I want to meet your family?”

Merlin’s eyes shifted to the fire. “I suppose not.”

Arthur hesitated. “Unless you don’t want me to...?”

“No!” Merlin said quickly, then cringed. “I mean, of course I want you to meet them. Mother would love you. Will would be…” Merlin struggled for a moment. “Difficult, at first, but that’s because his father was killed because of a noble. He’s held a grudge against anyone of noble birth since.”

Arthur nodded, staring at the way the fire made Merlin look almost ethereal. “I would win him over. I’m not like other nobles.”

Merlin looked back to him, a smirk already in place. “No, you’re an even bigger prat than they are.”

Arthur spluttered as Merlin laughed. It was a beautiful sound, and Arthur would let him joke all he wanted if it meant he got to hear it. Without thinking Arthur reached up and cupped Merlin’s cheek in one hand. Merlin stopped laughing, and Arthur found himself enchanted by their deep blue.

“Arthur?” Merlin whispered.

“Is this okay?” He asked, because he had to be sure.

Merlin’s answering grin was blinding. “It’s more than okay.”

Arthur grinned, and then Merlin’s lips were on his, and for that moment the world was perfect.

///

Bonus: Merlin pulled back and laughed. “Is this another one of my manservant duties?” “Idiot.” Arthur grinned, and kissed him again.

 Thank you all so much for all the support you've given me and this story. All of the likes have meant the world to me. <3 See you all in the next one!

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[etaeternum]

Vigilance

Mother of Griffons Vigilance

Grief continues.

If you would like to read on AO3 Or start from the beginning on tumblr!

"Alistair?" A female voice called from the entryway of the stable. "King Alistair?"

"What?" Alistair replied, displeased with yet another intruder to his sour disposition as he prepared to mount his horse. He did not turn to face the speaker. Placing one foot in the stirrup, his other leg readied to swing over the saddle.

"May I have a word?" She asked. The cadence flowed, emitting authority and decision through a thick Orlesian accent.

An audible harrumph preceded his turn, amused with her audacity to approach a king with such assertiveness. Alistair's pompous sneer joined a cocked brow and met the face of the woman. An Elf stared at him, short though older than he, dressed in mages robes. He recognized her. Why is she here?

"Ah… Grand Enchanter Fiona, isn't it? Who gave Redcliffe to a Tevinter Magister? Who I expressly banished from Ferelden? Yes, right. How can I help you?" His gaze traveled back to his stirrup, and he lifted his foot. "Or not."

"Now it is only Fiona," the woman corrected. Her hands met as she stepped closer, wringing with unease as her brows bunched. "The Circle will find a new Grand Enchanter when it is reinstated."

Alistair glanced to Fiona and sighed. The sudden timidity of the woman who approached him contrasted his snide demeanor. It became a challenge to justify his spite. "Well, in the meantime I hope the Inquisition treats you well enough." He took the position to mount yet again, eager to abandon this already perplexing interaction.

He looks so much like his father. Fiona stumbled to find words. She shook her head to clear her thoughts and reminded herself why she desired this conversation. It might be the last chance she’d ever have to speak with her son. "Forgive my forwardness, your Majesty," she voiced. "I know your wife sought a cure for the Calling."

Alistair stopped mid-motion, releasing the horn of his saddle and turning to face Fiona. His horse neighed at his indecision. A sneer morphed to a frown and Alistair's brows creased ever so slightly.  He stepped toward her, towering over the small woman. "And what do you know of the Calling?" The intensity of his question loomed in the silence that followed.

"I…," she started. The speed at which she wrung her hands increased until she forced them down to her sides. "It doesn't matter. But I know the difficulty this presents to you and your grief."

"Do you?" He imposed, unable to believe anyone could understand him. Bitterness conflicted with the desperation. "Do you know what it's like to lose the person you care about most? To spend every moment hoping you're about to wake from a bad dream? Do tell, Fiona. How would you know that?"

Fiona stalled, cringing; her eyes misted, gazing at the giant man above her. With a slow breath she blinked to focus. "The Maker plays clever tricks, King Alistair. I know profound loss and the unfathomable sadness that accompanies."

Tears welled in Alistair's eyes. Through his stubbornness, his emotions visibly stirred. Fiona recognized the deep sadness in his gaze akin to her own, but it vanished to frustration and riled confusion. "What could you possibly know about profound loss?"

Long unspoken words failed to pass her lips; she had much more to say than her will granted. Her brows furrowed together, empathetic and sorry. "More than you could imagine, your Majesty. I came to speak with you before you departed because I know the difficulty of this decision. If you find a cure… do you choose to live longer with this sadness? Or do you follow the fate ordained by the Order and allow the Calling to take you?"

Alistair’s jaw set, teeth clenched; he rubbed the building tears from his eyes with his thumb and middle finger. Dry laughter sounded as his hand brushed away and a sad grin pulled at his lips. "Hah, yes. I suppose I face quite the conundrum. Thanks for pointing that out."

She gave an apprehensive smile, soft and caring despite his unpleasant behavior. He took a moment to breathe. It seemed to calm him.

Through a low tone, almost a whisper, she gave guidance. "The sadness will worsen before you heal from it. But remember: you will heal. You have much left to gain and much left to give in this life."

The wisdom she offered echoed through the stable. He stared back, dumbfounded by the unconditional endearment.

She felt the upheaval of emotions; a unique kind of love far more complicated than what could be captured in words. It's not the right time. Pulling together her composure, Fiona continued, "Again forgive my forwardness." Her chin lifted and her posture straightened; confident gestures of her hands illustrated her speech, rolling along with her words. "Notwithstanding my banishment from your kingdom, should you find yourself in need of the consult of a former Grand Enchanter, I offer my services to you, King Alistair." Fiona bowed her head.

Brows creased with confusion before he nodded in return. "Um, sure…" he meandered. "I will keep that in mind. Thank you, Fiona, former Grand Enchanter." A feeble smile followed his gratitude.

Fiona bowed once again and left the bewildered Alistair alone in the stable.

Horses mounted, carts loaded, Ferelden and Grey Warden armies gathered to depart from Skyhold. Though they traveled together, the two armies separated naturally. Nathaniel, stepping in to lead the Wardens, and Alistair at the head of the Ferelden Royal Army, his advisors by his side. The Inquisitor, having returned from Skyhold a few days prior, approached the King of Ferelden first.

“Thank you for your service to the Inquisition,” Alanna addressed Alistair, who sat atop his horse waiting to depart.

“Thank you for accepting our aid,” he replied, diplomatic and rehearsed. A blank but tired expression met the eyes of the Inquisitor. “Pardon our early departure. Under other circumstances, we would stay to help.”

“You need not apologize. You and your soldiers,” she glanced to the armies from Ferelden gathered outside the gate, “have made a significant dent in Corypheus’ military. We could not have done this without you.” She chose her following words with painstaking care. “The sacrifice your kingdom has suffered will not be in vain.”

Alistair’s reserved gaze shifted to sorrow before his focus returned. He nodded to the Inquisitor.

Walking from one army to the other.  The two men’s obvious avoidance of each other forced a greater distance for the Inquisitor’s walk.  Alanna addressed Lieutenant Howe, and her cousin stood nearby. “And to you, Lieutenant,” she bowed her head, “thank you for the support of the Grey Wardens.”

The list of reasons the Grey Wardens would have been better off never stepping foot into Skyhold ran through Nate’s mind. But he gave a tight-lipped smile and a simple bow. “Wardens serve where service is due,” he mumbled.

The Inquisitor’s eyes traveled to her cousin and upon landing she took the few steps to Hale. “Is it safe to assume we will not see you with the Lavellan Clan anytime soon?” Though spoken with love, Alanna’s words did not hide the enmity the entire clan felt toward Hale’s behavior.

“I’d say that’s a safe bet,” Hale replied with a grin, her devilish stare darting to Nathaniel.

“Shame,” Alanna assessed, her soft gaze intensifying as she followed Hale’s glance to Nathaniel. Suspicion merged with professionalism; she scanned the Warden Lieutenant presence.

The involuntary raise of his brow paired with the smirk pulling at the corner of his lip opposed his sullen attitude. And? What are you going to do about it? Nathaniel mused what he desired to say in reply to Inquisitor Lavellan’s accusatory glance.

Displeased, Alanna returned her gaze to Hale. Though she desired to scold her cousin, Alanna did not wish to have their last interaction end in harsh words. “My dear, sweet cousin. Please be safe. I miss you.”

“Right, yeah. Miss you too, cousin,” Hale dismissed the sentiment.

The Inquisitor finished bidding farewell to the Ferelden forces as they marched from Skyhold toward Ferelden.

Since it seemed more than the last month had consisted of marching, the armies had less vigor. Mountains morphed from cragged, icy peaks to bulky stone covered in lush forest. Snow melted, frigid temperatures mellowed to cold as the altitude lowered, the climate changing. The march, estimated to take weeks, proved more arduous than the other direction. Weather beat down the armies; snow and hail later replaced by wind and rain. Claps of thunder in the distance echoed the rumbling of synced steps.

Efforts to stay energized waned as the processional traveled through the northern side of Ferelden toward Denerim. A guarded cart carrying the deceased Queen tucked between the two armies. Mages continued alternating spells to preserve her and ward away spirits. Watchful eyes of both the King and Lieutenant Howe kept those with the charge of caring for the body alert to any potential dangers.

Her smile. Ashen-blonde locks cascading down her face, haplessly pulled back by her loose braid. Silvery-blue eyes that usually pierced right to his soul; now squinted, wrinkling with her toothy-grin. Sunlight cast down on her, highlighting her features and coaxing them to glow. Her head tilted back and in an instant- blessed Andraste- her mouth opened without her control and the most pleasant notes of laughter danced from her lips.

Bold and self-assured, Alistair grinned beholding the magnificent sight that was Caoilainn laughing. A bad joke, a witty remark, a silly sound effect following a clumsy step; the source didn’t matter. It took little time to learn upon meeting the anxious woman of her proneness to uncontrollable fits of giggles at his expense. Proudly, he gained some level of mastery over the craft through the years of their marriage in between her sadness, and despite her secrets. Often lost in her head with worrying and planning, his consistent victory at entertaining her never ceased to astound Alistair. As though he enthralled her; for those fleeting moments when he had her laughing, nothing else existed. The world around them melted: the Blight gone, their pasts erased, responsibilities obsolete. His ego stroked with each note; pride compounded by much needed giggles.

“I haven’t seen you laugh like that in ages,” he admitted the night before they left Skyhold. The closest he had ever come to confessing the power her laughter gave him. A cruel jest: being deprived the sustenance of the sight and sound of her reckless abandon for the last five years, then given a small taste, only to have it ripped away forever.

Alistair’s horse trotted along, marching with the rest of the Ferelden army. Thoughts of Caoilainn, images of their last few moments together flashed in his mind, and as bittersweet reprieve more pleasant memories sprang forth. Boundless love that flourished in the darkest circumstances and prevailed through unlikely odds. Dashes of arguments, long-held resentments few and far between, followed only by angered thoughts remorsing the lack of clear resolution. Cycling over and over until his eyes blurred, dry until the sting of tears brought his awareness back to the present.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. The words replayed piercing his chest each time. I’m still here, Caoilainn. Come back to me. “Yes, my King.” Memories of sweet murmurs whispered in his ear, the lovely sound of her response to his command. Unmitigated love denounced any shame for recalling wanton interaction. Instead, it exacerbated his longing. Short-lived nostalgia, interrupted by his heavy heart building pressure each time he returned to reality.

Advisors came to speak with him. Blank nods, and short answers satisfied their expectations, or they stopped trying. Either way, they allowed him to return to his thoughts.

The wheels of the cart near him turning endlessly, horse hooves clopping, and soldiers marching created a blaring hum infiltrating his reverie. Repetitive, unwelcome noises disturbed his sad solitude and reminded him of the harsh truth. On occasion, Alistair’s concerned gaze traveled from the cart to the Warden Lieutenant on the other side. He often found the man studying Caoilainn’s cart with equal intensity. Enraged, but without the ability to demand otherwise with tact, he stored his reactions and prepared to take any opportunity to make the man’s life miserable, given the chance.

Reluctant to admit the anger Alistair felt toward the Lieutenant accounted for both Caoilainn’s and Nathaniel’s part in the affair, Alistair harbored wrath. As Caoilainn could no longer take responsibility, the burden fell to Howe. A history of bad blood now magnified by the ten years Alistair spent making presumptions of their tawdry activities.

Days carried into nights and the same repetition of thoughts filtered through until he found some semblance of sleep, only to wake and repeat the next day of the march.

Her smile. The recalled sound and image of Caoilainn’s laugh provided empty respite.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Home in time for Starlight.

This late in the Moon of Nophica, the pale sun cannot even keep its head above the horizon through dinnertime; it nods, and the early winter cold falls with it. 

The walkways of the lower Pillars, spotted with ice-puddles in every unevenness of stone, are perilous indeed this time of year. They might even be deadly, save for the faint light streaming down from the Crozier, gaily twinkling every bell of the night, by which the traveler picks a careful path to his destination, gingerly testing the ground with his cane before committing a foot to it. 

Late he may arrive, but with no broken bones. 

The inside of the building is joyously warm, the heat and aroma of the kitchen billowing out into the street when the door is opened for him. His host first scrapes, then leaps up to take his hat and greatcoat. "T-t-t-to think you walked in this weather, milord!" 

Both of them glance outside, where, from the window of his two-bird hackney, a fur-wrapped driver peers back at them, scowls, then draws the black velvet curtain shut. 

They look back at each other; a moment passes, and then Rosaire inclines his head and murmurs, "I am sorry to have kept you both waiting."

"No t-t-trouble, no trouble," the traiteur chirps as he, too, draws the curtains shut. An awkward pause; when he turns back to the highborn, he wrings his hands, hunched and smiling. "Your... guest, ah, is at the table." 

The former inquisitor's keen eyes spot what crosses his face when he says that, prompting a laugh. "Thank you, but, pray," he chuckles, "don't fear for my lady at home, Master Denisot. We are here only to talk; there will only be the usual sort of stains to scrub out of the tablecloth, I promise you." 

"Yes, milord," with a blush and another low bow -- though as soon as Rosaire turns to step into the next room, he shuts the curtains of the other window as well. 

The dining parlor glows, golden light bouncing from surface to silver surface. A large mirror hangs over the fireplace -- a new addition, he notes, since his last meal here -- and the substitution of beeswax for tallow gives him pleasing evidence of the host's prosperity. Careful inspection would, of course, reveal the wallpaper to be painted-on and the domanerie to be imitation, and one of the tapestries upon the wall appears to be a repurposed rug -- but the colors, rich and lovely, provide an adequately decadent atmosphere for the traiteur's usual highborn clients, who, Rosaire imagines with a tinge of amusement, would be less pleased if the decor outshone their manors', anyway. 

Rising from one of the two chairs at the table is the woman he has come to meet; he returns her curtsey with a bow. In some ways, her appearance surprises him; already she is back in lush red wool satin with lace at her sleeves and throat, and her head is heaped with blond curls that he can’t imagine are her own. Her lips curl in the way they always do -- but her cheeks are hollow and her color, though hard to judge in the candlelight, pale, and that is as he grimly expected. 

"Inquisitor," she greets, in a low murmur.

"Madam." 

The traiteur, stepping into the room behind him, pulls back a chair for him to be seated. He does not do the same for the woman; she seats herself, paying it no mind. Then, heading for the kitchen, he left them to sit facing each other in silence. 

She speaks up first, in a tone of coy amusement: "Well -- what is your conclusion, after all this observation?" 

He smiles. "That it has been but eighteen moons since I saw you last, yet you've grown remarkably old." 

She bursts into bright laughter at that. "I have? No, milord, I have but neglected to put on my face, as it is only you I am meeting tonight. No," and she eyes him up and down again, "I fear you are the one a single year has greatly aged."

He chuckles quietly. "You are right." His one good hand reaches out to touch the head of the cane leaned against the table. "... You are right." 

The chef and his apprentice bring out from the kitchen what has been long awaiting the second guest’s arrival: a single course, but well-appointed, with trays heaped high. While the seated woman may sigh at how the plates no longer steam as hot as they might have, the man across from her gives no sign of being anything but pleased, and takes up a manchet in hand before the wine is poured. She shakes her head and extends her fingers to pluck a browning slice of apple off another plate; "And I shall soon be as young as I ever was, after a few moons on this diet," as she dips that slice into a bowl of syrup. 

Rosaire chuckles again, though this time with only feeble humor, and does not speak until that manchet is nearly gone. "... And how is your situation?" 

She hums a note, setting a pie-lid aside. "Losing the location was most unfortunate, yes. Really quite sad. My girls had to scatter across the city, very inconvenient for them. But my top students did well and kept the business afloat without me, bless them, and at this point we’re nearly recovered." 

"That… is good," he supposes. After a long pause filled only with uncomfortable chewing, he at last adds, in a low murmur, "I am… sorry I could do naught for you." 

She hums another note; this one is flatter. Yet there is no other sign of bitterness in her face when she answers placidly, "You warned me of the outcome, and I proceeded -- and though I did my best for Mother Ishgard, 'twas not enough." 

"No," he sighs. 

And she, too, falls silent, taking a long sip of wine. 

"... I pray the privations you suffered were not too great." 

She snorts. "They were considerable. But not as bad as I might have expected, I admit. Your little nephew seems to have spoken in my favor, and they treated me gently." 

"Thank you for keeping him safe." 

She dismisses his sentiment with a gesture and a laugh. "It benefited me to do so, didn't it?" 

"Even so, he is blood… for weal or for woe," and he rubs the bridge of his nose. 

She smiles but falls silent. When she speaks again, her voice is soft: "It seems as though you, too, did your best for Ishgard, and that yours was also not enough." 

"... Yes." 

"And so what shall you do now, Master Marguerite?"

"Survive," he answers, sagging with resignation. "Remember the truth and keep it alive. Someday the time will come -- in our children’s lives if not our own -- when the people are ready to hear it again." 

She looks at him, pauses, and then suddenly laughs again. "Is that why you are now, of all things, married?"

He gives her a weary, unamused look, even as his cheeks erupt into an unbidden flush. 

"I seem to recall, from many years ago, some words to the effect of your troth being long-ago pledged to your profession -- or at least protestations that you would never wed. And yet," she wags her spoon at him as she teases, "what is the first news I have of you once I am out? That you had a stroke and then were married." 

"Ha," he replies. 

"So was it the happenings at the Vault that brought about this sudden change of heart, or the apoplexy?" 

He grimaces at her horrid joke, but then he lowers his gaze, falling silent. As he contemplates his stew, his face, characteristically grim and creased with tension, begins to soften. 

"I had thought," he answers, distantly, "as a young man in Her service, my heart too full to admit another. And then, to my surprise, she fit into it, perfectly." 

"I am sorry I asked," she groans. 

It is his turn to laugh now. "Then I shan't go on, save to ask your advice on one specific matter -- and not that sort of matter." 

At this she leans forward, grinning again. "Well, this will be interesting. What on earth could I advise you about if not that sort of matter?' 

He shakes his head with a sigh, the color lingering in his cheeks, and chases a piece of mutton around his bowl for a moment while he thinks. Then, softly, he begins, "My wife… is Hyuran, as you may have heard." 

"I did indeed." 

"... And it is not done, in Ishgard, for Elezen to marry Hyur." 

"No, it is not." 

"But that it is not done is not of consequence to me," his voice finding its confidence. "I would rather measure my actions by Halone's laws as She gave them to us, not by the secular concerns of our inbred nobility and its obsession with blood. And as I know no coherent theological argument against a marriage of two faithful, chaste and orthodox in all other ways, I am not afraid of opprobrium from the ignorant." 

She holds up a hand. "And you will have none from me, Inquisitor, as you should already know." 

"I do," and he inclines his head. "Forgive me for going on. What I mean to say is… I have no legitimate cause for shame in my marriage… though there is one cause for anxiety. That being, that… as common as you and I know it has ever been for highborn, despite their protestations of disgust, to get children on Hyur, it has ever been the custom to discard such women and forget their children. Noblemen have never cared -- or dared, mayhap -- to record the histories of those women and their pregnancies, nevermind any complications thereof. And so--" 

"-- you seek my expertise, as a woman of that industry that has seen more Hyuran women bred by Elezen than any other." 

"... Yes." 

She hums with thought, leaning back in her chair. "Well, you're not mad for asking me, though I've tried as little as possible to be a midwife. I call in someone else to deal with it, either to get rid of the girl's problem or help her deliver it. But, let's see… what exactly are you asking?" 

He flashes a brief grimace, but in a moment his expression is returned to calm solemnity. "My fear is that… my wife's health might suffer, should she be forced to carry my child. If it should be too large for her, either in the carrying or delivery. She…" he swallows, "is a small woman, even for Hyur. And…" 

"And a half-blood might be too big to get out." She taps her spoon thoughtfully to her lips, missing -- or else ignoring -- his twitch at her use of that word. "Well… again, you're not mad to wonder. Even purebred babies kill their mothers from time to time. But..." Her gaze wanders to the ceiling, and then, after some long consideration, settles back on Rosaire. "I must ask our midwives before I can say for certain, but -- you've not seen many half-bloods as children, I imagine. But those I have known -- when they are small, they're not much different from Hyur, save for the ears. Most of their arms and legs -- like Elezen kids' -- come in as they're just maturing. So there's that; and none of girls I knew who died in labor were Hyur carrying half-bloods, 'least as far as I can remember. And so when you said Halone has no objection to your marriage, you may have already been right. Society may punish you for it, but mayhap the Twelve will not."

He exhales a long-held breath, reflecting in silence. Finally, he murmurs, "I must pray that you are right." 

"I'll speak to our usual midwives. Shall I send them direct to your address?" 

"Yes, you may." He reaches for his glass -- then pauses. "And…" 

"Yes?" 

"As you re-establish your business… if you find that any of your girls have come to be in search of a different profession--" 

"-- you are, as ever, here to serve?" She pops a sweetmeat in her mouth. "I know." 

He sighs -- but then, he smiles. "... Truth be told, I am glad you are back." 

"As, of course, am I." She takes up her own glass, raising it jauntily towards him. "Let's have a toast, then: to freedom." 

"Aye." He lofts his glass in answer. "To freedom." 

"However long it lasts… which," she adds with a merry sparkle, "shan't be very long for you, Papa Ledigne." 

"Pray, madam--" he groaningly objects, and she laughs. 

And they talk, and they eat, and light seeps from the windows, smoke from the chimney. Outside, ice twinkles on the rooftops and the streets; the wool-barded chocobos snuffle in their standing sleep, and the stars turn slowly above. 

And, despite everything -- all seems, once again, to be almost as it should be.