#and then he makes himself unimportant again and directs all the crowd's energy into something else

[casualavocados]

Will had begun to turn and call out, to keep them quiet: "Now you must keep the bargain. Look after the wounded people and start repairing the buildings. Then let the boat tie up and refuel." He knew that it would take a minute to translate that and let the message spread out among the watching townsfolk, and he knew, too, that the delay would prevent their relief and anger from bursting out, [...]. The bear watched and saw what he was doing and why, and understood more fully than Will himself did what the boy had achieved.

— The Amber Spyglass; Chapter 8

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

some kind of attention grabbing noise to clue you into the fact that its FIC TIME, BABES! again, mentions of self harm in this chapter, be cautious and take care of yourselves lost? confused? frightened? worry not. start here, for delicious tasty context

His home is broken. When he’d arrived at the Tudor, floating up the steps, he’d almost felt a sense of relief. No matter how bad everything is, at least he can see his dad and sister now. Even if they can’t see him, he can find a way to make them say his name, and maybe his presence will only be a band aid on a mortal wound, but they’ll at least all be bleeding out together.

But he doesn’t recognize the people in this house. They call themselves Lydia and Charles, and their voices sound the same, and they mostly look the same, but these can’t be his breathers, his family, because they hardly seem to count as one. Lydia’s only sixteen, but she looks older, sadder, the dark makeup and short dark hair a shock, when he’s only known her as fresh faced and long haired and blonde. And his Lydia used to smile, she used to tell jokes, she used to have life behind her eyes. This Lydia is functionally dead. She walks around, eyes half hidden behind hair and eyeliner, and sits quietly, hardly eats, picks at her food like she’s already accepted starvation as a viable escape method. Charles is just as bad. His father reeks of alcohol, a scent BJ can’t stand, and the gray at his temples is more pronounced than he remembers.

But worst of all, is how neither of them talk about anything that matters. He sits in his chair, at dinner, listens to Charles berate Lydia over some stupid school thing. “Mom always said high school was temporary. Ya know, unimportant,” he grates out, like he’s a part of the conversation, but no one turns to look at him. Lydia pushes her food around her plate, hardly reacts to the scolding, and that’s dinner. Two dead people, playing at being alive, neither doing an especially good job.

He goes before them, up the stairs, leaving a cold air behind himself, and he finds that he’s able to manipulate his bedroom door, though not by much, and it’s exhausting to do so. It opens only a fraction, but that must be enough to get Lydia’s attention, because she enters, pokes around, and even asks Charles about it. But he can see from the look in both their eyes, that this evidence of his existence isn’t enough. Lydia lays on his bed, in the dark, and cries for their mother, and he would give anything to cry with her. As it is, he hugs his knees to his chest, in the dark, and sits there, shaking and overwhelmed, as he listens to his baby sister softly sob herself to sleep.

He becomes well acquainted with their new bad habits fairly quickly. Charles is drinking himself into a stupor, every night, falling asleep at his desk, barely making it to work in the mornings, sometimes not changing out of his suit for a number of days, only applying cologne as needed, too busy in the bottle to take care of himself properly. That’s bad enough, but the first time he sees what Lydia does, now, it scares him so badly it’s hard to even think. She digs a shard of glass into her forearm, and it at least seems she’s not cutting to kill, but both siblings watch the red prick along the new wound in silence, until he speaks. “Mom wouldn’t like that,” he tells her, not that it matters. “You shouldn’t be doin’ that, Lyds. What if it gets infected? What if you get seriously hurt? Th’ blood’s supposed to be on th’ inside, kiddo,” he babbles, pointlessly, as she cuts deeper, sinks that glass further into her skin, and sits there, watching it, passively. Like it’s not happening to her. Like she’s watching something on a screen. Like she couldn’t care less that she’s hurting herself. “Dead Mom,” she addresses her empty room, as she often does. “If you can see this, you’re probably freaking out. This is coping. I’m coping.” She lies to the air in front of her. “You’re not,” he croaks out. “This isn’t healthy, Lyds, please..”

It’s a nightly ritual for her, at this point. She listens to music, looks through photos, and maims herself, and all he can do is watch her, trying to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid, or stupider. A week into silently stalking his own family, and he’s still not any closer to being seen, or figuring out how to make them say his name. It’s torture. He follows the two of them around the house, plays at being their shadows, and trails them places, work, school, the grocery store, wherever. It doesn’t matter. He might as well not exist.

Actually, not existing is already starting to sound pretty good.

Lydia stands up from her bed, still bleeding, and the motion of that breaks his thoughts. She crouches low, retrieves a photo album from under her bed that he didn’t know had been there. She flips through it, and has to sit down, after only a second.

“That th’ blood loss catchin’ up to you?” he snarks, before glancing over at her, and his eyes widen. She’s staring at a photo of him. Several photos of him, actually, and she flips through the album, pages and pages of him. He studies her expression, as she lands on a picture that he recognizes. The two of them, coming back from that disastrous visit to the Smallpox Hospital, on the lift, over the water. She’s nine, and adorable, and he’s sixteen and grubby, but infatuated with the two who had been sitting across from them. Adam had taken Lydia’s instamatic, and snapped the picture of the siblings, making faces, the skyline behind them.

“You remember that day, Lyds?” he tries, as he watches her brow furrow. She sighs, like she’s disappointed in herself, and closes the album, and it’s deposited back under her bed. “Mama, some of these pictures, they make my head hurt, more than my heart,” she says, softly, which he understands. She can’t remember him, all the memories she has of him are locked behind whatever mental wall this curse has created, and trying does nothing but confuse her. Maybe she can’t even see his face, in the pictures. Maybe it’s a blur, out of focus, like the moment you wake up, and have yet to rub the sleep from your eyes. That’s all he is, now, just a dream she can’t remember upon her return to the waking world.

He can open and close doors, but only barely, and it takes the energy out of him. He finds that any fire he lights still affects the world of the living, but when he tries to spell his name out in flames on the walls, all he manages to do is scare Charles into calling an electrician, about a possible electrical issue causing fires. He hadn’t even been able to spell out a “B” because somehow, this stupid curse can tell his intentions, and he hadn’t been able to physically move his arm, to form the letters he needed.

A month into living in hell, he’s finding himself feeling more and more like he’s losing his mind. He knows humans can be driven mad by isolation, but he’d never thought of what the effects on himself would be, especially since it’s not true isolation. He can go into a crowd, surround himself with people. It just doesn't matter, which is what’s making him feel so unhinged, and more than once, he throws himself into a crowd of people, and screams and kicks and thrashes, begging them to see him. All he succeeds in doing is giving a group of New Yorkers a slight chill.

But the thing that makes him the angriest is the day he finds a red headed stranger in their house. He and Lydia come in together, her just returning from a day at school, and him returning from a day of tagging along behind her, and the siblings both stop, and cock their heads at the same time, the same direction, at the sight of the strange woman standing in the foyer. Her red hair is piled in sort of a silly looking bun on top of her head, and she’s got some very intense bangs, hiding her forehead. She’s also wearing almost exclusively purple. She's scrunching her nose, examining one of Emily’s framed prints, the one of Saturn Devouring His Son, looking a bit disgusted.

“Who th’ hell is that?” he asks Lydia, and Lydia addresses the woman. “Who the hell are you?”

The woman turns to face them, and then smiles. “Oh, hello there!” she says, like they're strangers, and she’s welcoming them into her home. She lifts her hands, and rings a triangle Betelgeuse hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You’re bringing a very interesting energy into this house, Lydia,” the stranger smiles, like that’s the only facial expression she’s got. “You don’t say. I’m about to bring the energy of a bunch of cops here, too,” the teen threatens, staring at the woman, who places a hand over her chest. “My name is Delia,” she says, finally. “Your dad has hired me to be your life coach! He says you’ve been feeling down in the dumps, lately,” she gives an over exaggerated sad face. “But I know with a little positive thinking, me and you can turn that sad aura into a bubbling rainbow one!”

“Oh my god, you should bite her,” Betelgeuse says, instantly. “You up to date on your rabies shot?” Lydia asks. “Positivity makes me foam at the mouth. I wouldn’t get too close.”

Delia cocks an eyebrow, but does move, and allows the teen to move past her, up the stairs. “I’m just here to help you gain a new perspective, Lydia~!” she calls from behind her, as Lydia storms up to her room, and she slams the door behind herself. “Unbelievable,” she growls, throwing her bag on her bed, and he echoes her. “Un-fuckin'-believable!” he agrees, pacing around her room. “What th’ hell is a life coach, even?”

Lydia kicks at her wall, her big black combat boot leaving a mark on the red paint. “I’m the one who needs help? He can’t even say her name, and I’m the one who needs the hippie to come in, and try and change my perspective? A change of perspective doesn’t bring MOM BACK!” She ends her sentence in a scream, her face going red, and then she picks up her bag, and throws it at her bedroom door. The bang it makes isn’t satisfying enough, and she whirls around her room, looking for anything else she can throw around, and destroy. He settles on her bed, and watches, forced to be passive by the curse, as Lydia storms around her room, until finally, Charles throws open her bedroom door.

“You are being ridiculous,” he hisses at her, his grip on her door knob white knuckled.

“Get out! Get the hell out and leave me alone, and take that bitch downstairs with you!” Lydia screams, a hair’s breadth away from throwing a potted plant at him. “Scream and throw fits all you want, little girl. You can’t temper tantrum your way out of Delia being here. She’s going to help you.” She lobs the plant at him, and it barely goes sailing by their father’s head. Betelgeuse watches go over the railing, and then there’s the sound of it shattering on the entrance floor, followed by Delia’s surprised, “Oh!” Charles’ expression is deadly. “You can stay in here until you’ve calmed down,” is all he says, before slamming her door, and Lydia stands there, breathing heavily. “You learned how to throw those epic tantrums from me,” Betelgeuse tells her, as she flops on her bed, and screams into a pillow. read the rest right over HERE

[mithrilwren]

3 Turn

Another installment in the Shadowgast Figure Skating AU, inspired by the incredible art of @fiovske! You don’t technically have to read the first piece in the series to understand this one - they more or less stand on their own - but if you’re going to read both, I’d recommend doing so in order. [Also on Ao3] [Find the whole series of one-shots in this AU here!]

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3 turn: a figure skating element which involves a change in direction and edge. The direction of the turn follows the way the edge rotates and curves, either from an inside edge to an outside edge, or an outside edge to an inside edge.

---

1. Forward.

There’s a new skater on the ice tonight.

It’s a rare occurrence, to see an unfamiliar face in competition. Essek has grown accustomed to seeing the same lineup of competitors at every event. The particular selection of faces may change with the location, but the roster is generally static; there are only a select few whose skills are high enough to qualify at this level.

Still, the whirling blur of motion in Essek’s periphery wears a colour palette he’s not familiar with, and as his coach guides him through last-minute stretches at the sideboards, he watches the figure out of the corner of his eye. Not paying full attention, of course - his turn is next in the order, and there are many elements to review in his mind before he steps out onto the ice himself - but he does catch a few details: a grey and black suit, a flash of red hair, the sound of a skate coming down hard. 

Too hard, and the subsequent gasps of the crowd tell him a jump has been fumbled, if not outright failed. 

Essek smirks - not unkindly, necessarily, but with the satisfaction of renewed confidence. Whoever this new blood is, he’s clearly knocked himself out of the running. Not a challenger, then, and thus, not worthy of any more of Essek’s attention.

As the music fades to a close, he lets his breath go in one low beat. He’s ready. He’s relaxed. This will be a good performance.

Essek barely pays the new competitor any mind as they pass each other: him stepping into the rink, and the other man stepping out. There’s no delay between the two routines for flowers to be collected. Evidently, none were thrown. The man must truly be a newcomer - not many rise to this level of competition without accumulating at least a small base of supporters.  But again, Essek reminds himself, this is all unimportant to the task at hand. 

Essek floats out to the center of the ice and places one toe on its tip, hands curving up to frame his chin and cheek in an elegant tableau. The crowd is still, as breathless as his own body, as they wait for the first note.

Then the music starts, and Essek flies.

---

Once all the roses and little gifts are collected from the ice, Essek rejoins his coach in the kiss-and-cry. The red-headed competitor is already far from his mind as they wait together for his scores to be announced. 

(The cutesy name of the simple, black-clothed bench, surrounded by a chorus of video cameras and fake flowers, is something of a derisive joke between the two of them; neither he nor Mirimm would ever be caught dead doing either in public.)

The only expression Essek allows himself as the numbers are read out is a small smile: first place standing, as expected. Mirimm’s reaction is equally subdued. She doesn’t congratulate him, not on what was already a forgone conclusion. 

(And still, his heart eases as he hears the final tally, even though he knew that his performance tonight was without critique. There’s an unhelpful anxiety that accompanies every kiss-and-cry, so ingrained he can barely separate it from the brighter feeling of anticipation. He can’t seem to shake the lingering dread that one day the scores will be announced, and he will be found lacking, and the perilous peak on which he stands will crumble away.)

After returning to their seats, Essek watches the rest of the skaters from the audience with vague interest. He knows most of their routines by rote, along with their faces. The season is spent perfecting only two sets of choreography per person - one short program, one free skate - and he’s seen most of them performed already, whether televised or in competition. Still, the art of skating is beautiful in itself, and even familiar routines are a pleasant enough diversion as they all wait for the final scores, that will determine the skate order for the next day. 

Finally, after the last skater has received their marks, the ranking is read out to the audience. Essek’s name is the first announced, of course. As the top-placed competitor, he will go last. That, too, was never in question. 

The name ‘Caleb Widogast’, at a stalwart middle rank, crackles over the loudspeakers, and Essek starts. He cocks his head, trying to capture the remnants of the sound before the announcements continue. Something about that name… he’s sure he’s heard it before. Essek turns to Mirimm, leaning down to murmur in her ear.

“Why do I know the name ‘Widogast’?”

Mirimm - an elderly woman, with so many years of experience under her belt that not even her wizened face and hunched, almost goblinish appearance can diminish her reputation as one of the skating world’s premiere coaches - squints, her mouth set into a troubled frown. He’s not accustomed to seeing even that much emotion from her, and certainly not in public. Her answer takes far longer than it should for such a simple question. 

“I suppose that would have been before your time, wouldn’t it?” Essek carefully suppresses a wince. Having achieved so much by such a young age might be a badge of honour for some, but he often tires of being so continuously reminded of it. He would rather be set apart by his skill, not his circumstances. “He was a prominent competitor in the juniors circuit, many years ago. ” Her voice grows more craggly as it dips low, softer, as though she’s talking to herself and not to him. “I didn’t realize he’d started skating again.”

“A hiatus? Was there a reason?” There are few explanations that are conceivable to Essek, why someone would choose to give up the sport, even temporarily. You don’t leave a life like this up - not at this level, not after so much work and pain and investment. Even he, even after-

Well. It’s not something you just abandon.

Again, Mirimm pauses before answering. “I don’t know the whole story, but… I believe he was under a lot of pressure.” The inflection on the word pressure doesn’t quite sit right with Essek, and his own frown deepens. “The Empire is very... rigid, with its athletes, as you well know.”

Essek’s mouth parts slightly. Then Widogast is a Dwendalian skater. Now that’s interesting. Stranger still, that no one would have informed him of the man in advance, but if even Mirimm didn’t know he was competing...

“That’s all you can tell me?” 

“That’s all I’m telling you.” She fixes him with a hard look, and he sighs, knowing a final answer when he hears one. He’s learned not to question the hierarchy, over the years. As supportive as Mirimm is, and as high as he rises, there are still some things he’s not privileged enough to know. Being sponsored by the Dynasty itself comes with a laundry list of pros and cons, after all, and as much as he’s aware that his role in the conflict between nations is symbolic, it is not unimportant. The threads of political posturing between the Empire and the Dynasty are long-rooted and deeply meaningful, and appearances are more vital now than ever, in this time of perilous peace. He takes that responsibility as seriously as any aspect of his own career.

Still, his curiousity is peaked, and he barely hears the rest of the names in the order, too busy turning over one in particular in his mind. 

---

There are also pros and cons in being the last onto the ice, Essek muses the next day, as he waits for his turn to arrive. On one hand, he’s stuck ruminating on his own upcoming performance for longer than any other skater. On the other, he finally has a chance to watch the other routines properly. 

He waits with bated breath for the name ‘Caleb Widogast’ to be announced. From his seat near the front of the stands, he has a perfect view to suss out this mysterious competitor, and he intends to make good use of that advantage. Even if Mirimm refuses to share more, there’s a great deal he can learn from simple observation.

His catalogue begins the moment the man steps out onto the ice. There’s a certain awkwardness to Widogast’s movements, as the man drifts out to the center of the rink - a dipped head, and hunched shoulders, nothing at all like Essek’s regal posture. His eyes are nearly hidden beneath the long, wavy bangs that tumble out from his loose ponytail. It’s a curiously unpolished look: not strictly against regulations, but certainly not the finessed coif of a typical skater, especially not with hair of that length. Essek wonders if he does it himself, or if his stylist is simply unskilled. The messiness doesn’t seem intentional, rather, it almost looks like the ponytail began as a tighter pull-back, but wasn’t secured properly. 

His outfit, at least, is neat, if slightly old-fashioned. The hard lines of black and grey are typical Dwendalian attire, and Essek thinks again of Mirimm’s words. Rigid. That is certainly a word to describe the suit. He can’t say that Widogast looks terribly comfortable in its constrictive folds and creases. That type of outfit requires a precision to pull off that his hair and his posture don’t match. Everything about the look is like two halves at war from within, and Essek wouldn’t be surprised if the man loses points on presentation before the music even starts. 

In the quiet moments at center ice, Essek watches as Widogast breathes out, arms crossed in front of his chest. His shoulders come down, as though he’s forcibly told them to relax. Then the first note sounds, and Widogast takes off towards the rink’s edge in a burst of energy, launching into a routine that leaves Essek more confused with every bar.

The man is obviously quite technically proficient, but whatever rigidity he managed to force out of his shoulders, he clearly hasn’t shaken it from the rest of his body. His steps are intricate, but stiff, and though his movements smooth out into something more like a dancer’s elegance by the end of the first step sequence, Essek is keen now to the tension that shudders beneath. He isn’t surprised at all when Widogast’s first jump finishes a full rotation short of the intended triple lutz. Even if the set-up was executed well, it lacked confidence, and no jump approached with hesitation will ever succeed.

Still, the landing is clean, and though the rest of the routine is fairly unremarkable - full of the traditional upright forms and purposeful movements that he’s come to expect from the (admittedly, small) number of Empire skaters he’s competed against over the years - with each passing moment, Essek only finds himself more transfixed by the series of contradictions that make up ‘Caleb Widogast’. 

Who is this man, who skates with all the skill of a champion and the confidence of a fifteen-year-old trainee? 

Why is his outfit so strict, and his hair so wild? 

Who would give up skating for long enough to fall out of memory, only to return as a shadow of their former glory?

Essek must know more. 

He watches Widogast’s face as the song comes to a close, hoping to catch a glimpse of his reaction to the past few minutes. Is he pleased with the middling performance, or disappointed? But as soon as the music dies away, his head is already tucked back to his shoulder, and he hurries his way off the ice even before the polite smattering of applause finishes. No flowers again, and no whoops or cheers from the audience. Even the other Dwendalian entrant - Vadim, oft bronze-medalist, powerful jumps - offers no vocal support to his countryman. He sits a few aisles away from Essek, watching the routine just as intently as him, but without any hint of comradery hidden in his tight-lipped expression. If anything, his look is assessing, rather than familiar.

Stranger and stranger.

Essek’s eyes follow Widogast as he steps out of the rink and heads towards the kiss-and-cry. There’s no coach waiting there when he arrives. Widogast takes a seat by himself, and the next skater takes to the ice. The music starts again, and still, nobody joins him. Widogast picks up his coat from atop his bag and wraps it around his own shoulders, clutching the fabric to his chest as he waits for the scores to be read. 

Essek’s heart unexpectedly pangs. He’s no stranger to being on his own - he prefers it, nearly always - but still… he never realized how lonesome that bench could look. 

Essek prides himself on being able to predict any score within five points, and this time is no exception. Not a bad showing, per se, but nothing spectacular. Even with only half the scores tallied, the podium is already out of Widogast’s reach. Essek is too far away to judge his expression as the numbers are read from the loudspeakers, but his reaction is far from dramatic. The man sits quietly for a few moments more, then gathers his bag and returns to his seat, ignoring the handful of microphones shoved in his direction as he passes the press box. He doesn’t move from that seat, not for as long as it takes Mirimm to tap Essek on the shoulder and remind him that he should get downstairs and stretch for his own routine. 

It only strikes him as odd a half-hour or so later, as he gets up off the cold concrete floor and returns the foam roller to its case, that Widogast’s seat wasn’t next to Vadim’s. If anyone else from the Dynasty was in attendance, they and Essek would have been seated together. A show of patriotic solidarity is never amiss, and the Empire tends to be even more strict than his own country in that regard. But he doesn’t have time to contemplate the question further, because Mirimm is already hurrying him along, back to the rink’s edge just in time for his routine to start. 

The rest of the night passes in an accustomed blur - the flawless performance, the kiss-and-cry, the inevitable triumph. It seems barely more than a blink of the eye before Essek finds himself on the podium, listening to the last strains of the familiar anthem fade away. He receives his medal gracefully, dipping his head as the ribbon is placed around his neck, but when he looks up again, it’s to scan the crowd once more, looking for Widogast. 

The search is fruitless; his eyes land on an empty seat, and no trace of where the man went. Perhaps he left once he knew the final results. Essek can’t help but be a little disappointed - he has always been insatiably inquisitive, and this Caleb Widogast is an enigma like no other - but it seems tonight is not the night he’ll satisfy that curiousity. 

Essek exchanges civil handshakes with the other medalists and makes his way back towards the locker room to collect the remainder of his things, while the crowd begins to filter out of the arena. 

Progress is slow, constantly impeded by eager fans looking for autographs or photos that his station - and the ever-present cameras - don’t allow him to refuse. Mirimm knows not to wait around, and by the time he manages to (politely) fight his way out of the stands, he finds himself in a mostly abandoned facility. The occasional conversation still wafts through the echoing concrete corridors below the rink, but most of the other skaters have left already. He’s pleased by the solitude, not least because his left leg is aching fiercely, and in an empty hallway, he can allow himself the slightest limp. He keeps his ears open for any hint of incoming footsteps, of course, but it’s an unexpected boon after a long day.

The locker room is empty as well. Still, Essek ducks into one of the shower stalls and turns the lock before unzipping his bag. He moves aside the foam roller’s case and reaches in, pulling out the brace that lies beneath. Essek holds it in his hands and leans back against the wall, considering. 

The pain is worse tonight than usual, but this isn’t exactly a regional show. The reporters will be trained on him the moment he emerges into the lobby. Better not to risk it. Essek slips the brace back into the bag, wincing as he pushes himself off the wall, and unlocks the stall door. 

He can manage, and there will be a hot shower waiting for him once he passes through the gauntlet of reporters and returns to his hotel: a well deserved reward.

He takes another step, and his thigh muscle shudders beneath the weight. Essek grits his teeth.

He can manage. 

Essek is nearly to the back stairwell that will take him back to the lobby when he hears it - a new, unplaceable sound, drifting from around the corner. He steps closer, and the sound becomes clearer. Quickened, irregular breathing. 

He walks as quietly as he can to the bend, and peers around. 

A man is braced against the wall, arms crossed over his eyes as he leans his weight against them, his face turned towards the ground as he gulps shallow breaths of air. The shock of red hair, now fully escaped from its tie and spread loose over quavering shoulders, is unmistakable. 

It’s Widogast.

Essek means to back away as silently as he came. The man is indisposed, and no matter how great his curiousity, he wouldn’t spy on someone in such a private moment. But his leg, the treacherous thing, buckles on the first step back, and that slight stumble is enough to bring Widogast’s head whipping up. His bright eyes - blue, very blue, improbably blue - land on Essek, and Essek freezes, feeling more chastened than he probably should, considering he truly hadn’t meant to intrude.

Widogast immediately straightens, sucking in one last breath before bowing his head. “I am in your way. My apologies.” 

The soft accent catches Essek off guard. Stereotypical as it might be, he was expecting the more severe dialect of King Dwendal. As a child of the Dynasty, brought up in wartime, there were few other Empire voices that were recognizable. All he had were the propaganda speeches on the radio and the indistinct image of a faraway court on the television. He was not a soldier, and would never meet a child of the Empire face to face. At least, that’s what he’d assumed, at the time.

“Are you…” alright, is the word he wants to say. If it’s not an outright panic attack he’s startled the man out of, it was something close to it. But to acknowledge that feels too... forward. They’ve only just met, after all, and he is still a representative of the Dynasty. He must never forget that, or the caution it entails.  “...going up?” Essek finishes, gesturing at the stairwell.

Widogast grimaces, a pained look that smoothes out to something more neutral as surely as his movements did on the ice. It’s almost disconcerting, how calm he seems now - how steeled - when only a few minutes ago he could barely breathe. 

“I will, in a short while. Please,” Widogast says. “Don’t let me keep you.” His eyes move to Essek’s chest and widen in realization, and Essek is suddenly self-conscious of the golden medal that still shimmers between strips of back gauze. “My apologies again, Herr Thelyss, and... congratulations, on the victory.”

“Thank you,” Essek says slowly. So he knows who Essek is. Has the man been studying up on him as well? But he forces the momentary paranoia down. He is the reigning champion, three years running, and today’s victory sets him well on the path for a fourth crown. Of course this man would know his name. Who in the skating world doesn’t?

Still, Essek makes no move towards the stairwell, and neither does Widogast. Finally, Essek breaks the stalemate. “Shall we go up together?” 

It’s a reckless suggestion. If they’re seen emerging together, the reporters will eat them alive. He’s under firm instructions from both Mirimm and the Bright Queen herself that he’s to maintain a civil, but distant, relationship with those Empire competitors he meets. But he can’t help but want to continue the interaction, now that circumstances have brought them together. He might not get another chance like this, imprudent as it might be.

If anything, Widogast’s expression becomes even more pained, and Essek watches him physically hold in a shudder. “Please, go on,” he says again. “I’m sure you’re a busy man.”

An even more reckless thought occurs to Essek. “You’re very right. To be honest, I’m not sure I feel like spending what time I have with the vultures tonight,” he says, regarding Widogast with an air of nonchalance. “And - forgive me - you seem a little tired yourself. Perhaps we should show ourselves out the back? I know another exit.” There. Plausible deniability for the both of them.

Widogast fixes him with a stare as piercing as Essek’s ever delivered, and he knows he’s been found out. That might concern him more, if he knew what, precisely, he was attempting to conceal in the offer. He hasn’t quite parsed out his own intentions - only that the enigma of Caleb Widogast has him intrigued, and he wants as much time as he can steal to begin to unravel the pieces of that mystery.

“...If you are offering, then… I would be grateful.” Widogast dips his head again, sharp expression fading to something almost weary. “I’m not sure I’m up to facing them tonight either,” he admits, more softly.

“Then the rear exit it is.” Essek turns, and a few moments later, footsteps hurry to join his as he leads the way through the twists and turns of the underground structure.

The truth is, Essek knows all the back entrances, to every major rink on the competition circuit. He often comes a day early to walk the halls, scouting out the surest route that will avoid the flash - or worse, the blinking red recording light - of the cameras. In a pinch, he’s even acquired building schematics, if advance travel wasn’t an option.

He can manage, after all - he always does - but there are some nights where he’d rather not have to.

The two of them walk in silence. Though there are a thousand questions burning on Essek’s lips, he knows that there is a time and place, and that this isn’t the appropriate one. Better to show as little of his own hand as possible, while he still knows so little about the man’s connections within the Empire, and… well, he doesn’t want to push Widogast further, not after what he just witnessed. 

It might be the shrewder choice. Widogast is more vulnerable now, at least emotionally, than he might be later on, and Essek could probably press him and learn some of what he wants to know. But still-

But still. He feels how he feels. There’s no use pretending something else. 

They come at last to a different stairwell, this one leading up to a set of heavy metal doors coated in cracked orangeish paint. Essek pushes the doors open and holds the first for Widogast, and the two of them exit into an alleyway. From the opposite end of the narrow path, the lights of the street blare and fade: cars, passing into the gathering night. Essek looks once more at Widogast, holding his coat closed against the chill of the damp night. Each wash of light catches the outline of the man’s hair: a glimmer of auburn against the grey brick at his back, tumbling in loose waves around his jaw.

“Thank you,” Widogast says again, this time with open, unguarded sincerity, and as the man finally meets Essek’s eyes, the back of his neck begins to prickle. “I am in your debt.” 

“Indeed. Perhaps I’ll ask a favour in return, the next time we meet?”

Essek means the banter to be light - playful, even - but Widogast doesn’t smile. He does nod, however, expression altogether too serious for the tenor of the conversation. “A favour,” he says. “Alright.”

“Till the next time, then,” Essek says, and starts towards the alley’s exit. Widogast follows on his heels, but Essek holds up a hand. “Give it a few minutes, in case there are watching eyes on this side.” Widogast frowns, but as Essek points to the symbol of the Bright Queen subtly embroidered on his sleeve, he nods again in understanding.

Essek chances one last glance back before he slips out of the alleyway and onto the street. He sees Widogast framed against the door: a figure in grey silhouette, and still impossibly alone.

---

The shower does help with the pain, and he’s able to go to bed that night without splinting the leg at all, which is a better outcome than he’d hoped. By tomorrow, he’ll be back in the Dynasty, in the comfort of his own home, and for now at least he has creature comforts: good wine, a soft bed, and an evening to himself, without needing to speak to a single other soul. This is his preferred way to celebrate a victory.

As he lays down to sleep, red hair and blue eyes flutter through Essek’s mind, an inescapable interest still burning within him. He finally gives in to the compulsion at almost one in the morning, dragging himself out of bed and back to the sitting room portion of the suite. Pulling open his laptop, he quickly types a name into the search bar. 

There are dozens of results for ‘Caleb Widogast’: old videos at low resolution, standings from various tournaments, even a few news articles in languages he doesn’t know. He clicks on one of the videos first, indulging himself for a minute or so in grainy clips of a boy with the same red hair - though much shorter - as the man he met today. But there’s something about the experience that’s almost uncomfortably voyeuristic, and he quickly abandons the pursuit in favour of the articles. 

The few that are in the common tongue are intriguing, but sparse, and all uniformly disappear after a certain date. By three in the morning, he’s exhausted every dead end, and come to one inevitable conclusion: Caleb Widogast - the junior’s champion, a prodigy, just like Essek - existed for many years, and then he simply didn’t.

After today’s standings, Widogast won’t be moving on in the circuit. The next leg of competition is all that matters. Essek shuts the laptop, tired and frustrated, and resolves to put the conundrum out of his mind. 

And, for a time, he succeeds.

2. Pivot.

The next time they meet, a season has passed, and Essek has his fourth championship victory. Riding high off his success and all the accolades that followed, the exhibition rounds before the next circuit are a breath of fresh air - literally. 

The warm shores of Nicodranas seem an unusual place to host an ice skating event, but perhaps the international planning committee has tired of all the cold and dreary locales they’re typically forced to frequent - or maybe somebody had a summer home that they wanted to make use of. Either way, it doesn’t quite suit Essek’s constitution, and he begrudges not having a good excuse to wear his typical heavy mantle outdoors, but it is a change of pace.

He’s taken aback when he spies the name ‘Caleb Widogast’ on the day’s program. Countries usually announce their designated entrants for these events months in advance - how is it possible that both he and Mirimm could be caught unawares yet again? But when he asks, this time Mirimm brushes him off entirely, and he’s forced to stew in silence as he waits for the man to appear. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. Widogast’s lot falls first in the order, and Essek settles in to watch the short program he missed all those months ago. 

Alas, there’s not much to watch. If he thought the man was unpracticed the first time he saw him skate, it’s worse now. These non-qualifier rounds are meant for testing and perfecting choreography before the competition truly begins, and Widogast is obviously still working out the kinks in his routine. The jumps are turbulent, nearly all under-rotated, and even his more melodic passages lack presence or style. Once again, the second half improves on the first, but in a short program - as the name implies - there isn’t much time to make an impression. Essek fully expects to see Widogast’s face fall as soon as he finishes. 

But he’s caught off guard as the music reaches its crescendo, then fades, and a raucous cheer rises from somewhere high in the stands. He’s close enough this time to see an embarrassed smile break over Widogast’s lips, and he gives a little wave to whoever made the noise before skating off the ice. 

The kiss-and-cry isn’t empty this time either when he arrives. Someone is sitting on the bench, in a tracksuit of blue and grey. They’re too far off to discern any other details, and Essek finds himself rising and descending against his own better judgement, ignoring Mirimm’s pointed look as he makes his way towards the semi-circle of cameras. 

Now that he’s closer, he can start to get a sense of Widogast’s companion. Tall, olive-skinned, with close-cropped hair tied up into a top-knot. Despite the baggy clothes she wears, the woman is obviously athletic. Muscles bulge beneath the flimsy fabric as she gives Widogast a hard pat on the back, and he leans in closer to her. She’s younger than him, Essek notes, and not built like a skater - nothing about her is delicate. It’s also unlikely she’s a coach, not at that age. A friend then, or a lover? He’s seen some skaters wait with their husbands or wives, even parents, when their coach isn’t available. It’s certainly a possibility.

He slips away before Widogast’s scores are announced, not wanting to risk discovery by either the man himself or the reporters that circle like sharks around the booth, waiting to snatch an interview from anyone who stops too long. He’ll have to find another excuse to reintroduce himself, somewhere farther from the ring of microphones. 

He finds his moment halfway through the roster of performances. It’s a carefully engineered crossing of paths, as he descends to find a glass of water at the same time as Widogast and his companion dip off from the rest of their group, heading in the same direction. 

Because, apparently, Widogast does have a group now: a few mismatched individuals clustered in the upper rows, far from the seats reserved for performers. That must have been where the cheer came from. Maybe he’s accumulated a small following between the first event and now.

Essek sidles up beside the pair, walking in lockstep for a few moments before speaking. “I was wondering if I’d see you again.” Widogast pauses, glancing over towards Essek, and puts his hand up to the woman as his eyes widen.

“Caleb, who’s this?” the woman asks, stumbling to a halt just inches shy of Widogast’s back. Her tone is entirely too aggressive for meeting a stranger, and he wonders what about himself provoked that level of suspicion in so short a time. 

“Essek Thelyss,” he says, giving a slight bow. “Your friend and I met a few months ago.” Her glare only intensifies, and Widogast puts a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s alright, Beau,” he says, then turns to Essek. “It’s good to see you again. I… understand congratulations are in order?” Essek inclines his head. 

“They’re appreciated, but not necessary. I’m happy to focus on what comes next.”

“I understand that completely.” Widogast’s words seem more steady now than they were before, and his posture straighter. Perhaps it has something to do with the woman - Beau - at his side. Some need others to prop them up, when their own courage fails. Essek is not one of those people, but he doesn’t judge those who do too harshly. It’s a difficult world they live in. “I intend to do the same.”

“And how was it, exactly, that you two met, Essek?” Beau crosses her arms, flexing until the muscles ripple beneath a sheen of acrylic blue, and Essek doesn’t miss how she subtly shifts so that she’s placed between the two of them, like a surly tomcat guarding its kill. He still doesn’t know what he’s done to warrant this kind of aggression from her, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Widogast beats him to the pass.

“Beau,” he warns. “This isn’t… it wasn’t him.” She turns her glare to her friend, and Essek watches on, even more perplexed, as a silent conversation ensues beneath the actual words spoken. “And this isn’t the time, or the place.”

Beau hesitates, but seems to find what she was looking for in Widogast’s eyes. It’s her turn to breathe out slowly, as she turns back to Essek. “Sorry, man,” she says. “Didn’t mean to jump down your throat.” She sticks out a hand, and he reluctantly takes it and gives it a light shake. Her grip is incredibly strong, and Essek doesn’t try to match it, aiming instead to take his hand back quickly, before any joints leave their sockets.

“No offence taken,” he says as she releases him. “I should return, anyhow. My turn will come soon.”

Widogast looks for a moment like he might protest, but eventually his mouth snaps shut, and his expression shifts to something between embarrassment and contrition. “It was good to see you again, Herr… Essek.”

The informality of the address takes Essek by surprise - no Empire skater has ever called him anything other than Thelyss - but his mouth quirks up at the edges. He gets the feeling he’s being mollified. He’s more surprised to find that the obvious manipulation is working. “Till next time, Caleb.”

If it’s offered, then he can return the gesture. He couldn’t be blamed, for following Widog- Caleb’s lead. Courteous, but still sufficiently distant. That still lies within the confines of his mandate.

Yes. That is a line he can defend.

And besides, it may not matter much. He’s learned all he needs to know at this point. Caleb’s poor performance at their first competition was not a fluke, thus the man remains an enigma, but not a threat. Essek is happy enough to lay the matter to rest. He has greater concerns to focus his energy on.

...

Herr Essek.

He’s never heard his name spoken before, in an accent like that.

Hmm.

3. Turn.

As for the third event, their paths don’t cross at all. Essek notes the familiar name in the program at the start of the first day, but doesn’t have the time or the inclination to seek him out over the course of the competition. This is, in many ways, the most important tournament of the season, though it isn’t the one that will determine the overall champion. New skaters debut here, and the tone of the whole circuit will be set by the results of this first event. He must perform. Any other distraction is a death sentence. 

And of course, with that anxiety mounting, the pain grows worse, as it always does. A flare, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in years, begins to burn steadily by the conclusion of the short programs, and the distraction is so great that even Mirimm notices his discomfort, when he can’t stop himself from squirming in his seat by the fifth hour. It’s undignified, and he hates his own weakness more than that of his body. He has better control than this. 

The pain will pass, if he can put it out of his mind. 

His performance in the free skate still earns him the top spot of the podium, but it’s a shakier thing than either he or Mirimm are comfortable with. For the first time in almost two years, and after a few very stern words from his coach, Essek concedes to the braces at the end of the second day. The constriction makes his gait awkward, and he waits until he is absolutely certain everyone else has left the building before attempting to sneak out to the street. His car will be waiting for him at the curbside, ready to spirit him away on the double as soon as he emerges. All he needs to do is follow the memorized route.

In this particular arena, the changing rooms are on the same level as the rink itself, and the path to his chosen exit takes him within a breath of the sideboards. He can taste the biting chill on his lips as he walks between walls of fibreglass, rather than concrete. 

Essek’s heart nearly stops when he hears the schiff of blades against ice drifting through the wall to his left. Someone is still here, skating.

He will have to walk past at least one opening to the rink before his path is clear. He slows to a more careful pace, lest he be spotted. It’s too late to go back and change out of the braces now, and if he’s recognized, the person would surely wonder about his altered steps, maybe even ask questions, maybe even tell others about what they saw, and… 

None of that is acceptable. So he will not allow it to happen.

At the first break in the wall, Essek pauses, then dips his head around the corner. It takes him a few moments to spot the figure on the far side of the darkened ring: a wraith of black and crimson. The shape drifts in and out of sight, obscured by the same wall that hides Essek. 

Late as it is, the rink is closed for the night. There should be nobody left here but the cleaning staff, and as always, his curiousity gets the better of him. Essek risks sticking his head out a little farther, trusting the darkness of the hallway to keep him safe for long enough to sneak a glance at whoever has snuck back in.

The only light in the arena falls from a single overhead array, casting a haze of sallow yellow over only half the ice, littered with patches of red from the emergency exit signs. He thinks at first that’s what he’s seeing - the reflection of the emergency lights - but the flashes of red behind the plexiglass are too fast-moving, too unstable to be echoes of something stationary. 

He steps closer still, pressing his back to the edge of the wall as the figure glides into the haze once more, curving backwards in a relaxed arc. Strips of red material that line the long sleeves of his black shirt shimmer as he passes through the transition between darkness and light. Essek squints, trying to make out any identifying features, before the skater slips into blackness once more.

He thinks, for a moment, that it almost looks like-

But that can’t be. The movement is too legato, too relaxed. If it really was-

The skater disappears, then emerges again, spinning out into an effortless combination - triple salchow, double toe loop - and sinks into the landing without a flinch or a stumble. His leg comes up as he transitions into a layback spin, the edge of the skate barely grazing the tip of his ponytail as he grasps the skate behind his head. Unmistakable auburn locks, still halfway to escaping from their tie, fan out as he spins, and spins, and-

It is him. 

It’s Caleb.

Without thinking, Essek steps closer, mesmerized by the sight. The spin narrows, and his foot comes down to a point as Caleb’s hands rise into the air, held together in a perfect spire. The pace quickens, so fast now that even if there was all the light in the world, Essek wouldn’t have been able to make out his face. The only sound is the whisper of his skate against the ice as the spin resolves, and he glides into darkness again. The tension releases, and Essek realizes he was holding his breath.

This Caleb is nothing at all like the one he’s seen in competition. The transitions he uses, the posture of his arms, the suppleness of his movements are softer, less biting than before - and yes, less powerful, but more graceful in return. It strikes Essek all at once, what the difference is: Caleb is not dancing like an Empire skater. His moves tonight lack the academic precision of any of the other Dwendalians Essek has competed against, whose style he now recognizes in the remembrance of Caleb’s earlier performances. Those routines were an imitation of a philosophy, one that didn’t sit comfortably on Caleb’s shoulders.

Whatever this style is - this bowling, wild, unpredictable dance - it’s something new. Something original.

Caleb reappears into the light. Double toe loop, single toe loop, double salchow, and straight into a quadruple flip, with barely a breath of space between the two. The final jump under-rotates by a mile and Caleb’s hand smacks down onto the ice as he falls out into an erratic spin, only rescued from a total wipeout by a last ditch turn onto the inside edge of his skate. Even so, he skids almost to a halt, and Essek puts a hand to his mouth, caught between horror and admiration.

He could have injured himself there, seriously so. To force a combination like that into the leadup for a quadruple jump... it was a one in a million chance of success, even for someone of Essek’s calibre. He must have known that he would fail, and likely twist an ankle in the effort, if not worse. Why risk it? Is it a strategy for the next competition, banking on difficulty over execution to boost his score? 

But it isn’t a routine that Caleb’s practicing. There’s no music, and if there was, Essek can’t imagine what piece would match the sequence of mismatched moves he’s attempting. 

No, this isn’t practice for the next event.

This is experimentation.

This is creation.

At last, Caleb glides to a stop at the center of the ice. Chest heaving, he raises his hands and pushes back the bangs from his forehead, hair held in place at last by the sweat of exertion. A panting wheeze becomes a smile, becomes a grin, becomes a laugh, and the sound peals out across the rink, echoing from the farthest corners. Essek feels the same joy swell within his own chest, the same excitement at having done the impossible, even if the effort was imperfect.

He doesn’t fall in love, in that moment. It’s still too soon, for all of that. But something in his heart falls out of place, and into Caleb’s unknowing hands. There’s a force drawing him towards center ice, tethering them together - a connection, when he has not felt connected to anyone, in so very long.

Essek slips away, letting Caleb experience his last moments of giddy triumph in peace. He’s already desperate to see him once more: the real Caleb, not the shadow he’s witnessed in competition. Essek doesn’t know how he’ll manage it, but he will. He is determined not to let this be the last time. 

And there has never been anything he’s been determined about, that he did not achieve.

Essek contents himself with that certainty, and only realizes as the car door slides shut at his back, that somewhere in the last hour, his pain disappeared.

[skylanders-after-the-end]

Rise of the Undead

Deep down below the mystical floating islands of the Skylands there was a place hidden underneath a thick layer of fog. A place so terrifying that no mortal being that valued their life has ever dared to enter it. It wasn’t until a powerful sorceress decided to descend into the dark depths and face the greatest evil that it had to offer. That place was the underworld. The walls crumbled into pieces as powerful blasts of magic collided like thunder strikes. Hex fought fearlessly against the Undead Dragon King himself, Malefor. The purple dragon unleashed his mightiest breaths of spectral fire, attempting to burn the sorceress alive. Hex precisely dodged his attacks and was able to counter with her own powerful light magic. The two have been fighting for hours and slowly but certainly, Malefor realized that he might have underestimated the powerful magician. Finally, with a final devastating blow which traveled throughout Hex’ entire body, the sorceress was able to defeat Malefor and leave nothing but a grand cloud of smoke behind. Exhausted, the witch fell onto her knees and took heavy breaths of the cold underworld air. As she collected her thoughts and strength, she realized that something felt different. She looked down on herself and saw a raven black dress accompanied by two ashy blue hands with long pitch-black nails. “What happened to me?” The sorceress asked herself in horror as she came to the realization that her stay in the underworld has turned her into the very same creature as her enemy that she just defeated, an undead.

Now, hundreds of years later, the Skylands were rid of the wicked dragon and had no reason to worry.

“We have every reason to worry!” Stealth Elf exclaimed, slightly overdramatic, after announcing that the Golden Queen has fooled them and is still somewhere running loose in the Skylands.

“Didn’t you trap all of them?” A worried voice from the enormous crowd in front of the Life Skylander demanded an answer.

“We thought so, but she had us transport a golden statue of herself instead.” Stealth Elf was embarrassed to admit that they were fooled by such a cheap trick.

“How is that even possible?” Another more irritated voice questioned.

“We were in the heat of the battle and Spyro discovered some strange new powers, we didn’t have time to observe them more carefully.” Stealth Elf tried to explain the situation as calmly as she could. “Speaking of that, we still have to figure out what exactly Spyro did back there. It seems to be pretty helpful when you’re overpowered and about to get killed by your enemy.”

While Stealth Elf was taking care of the crowd, Spyro met with Master Eon in his office. A few days have passed since the battle, but the Skylanders were still recovering from the damage they received.

“I just don’t understand.” Spyro looked thoughtfully into the grey bricks of the room. “It just happened right before they were about to defeat us. I didn’t have any power left in me and suddenly I felt like I was…”

“Awakened.” Master Eon suggested as an ending to Spyro’s sentence.

“Exactly!” Spyro sparked up and finally had a term for his miraculous transformation. “But what does it mean?”

“I would have to see it with my own eyes to be the judge of its meaning.” Master Eon gave Spyro an expecting look.

“I tried everything, but I can’t do it again.” The dragon sounded hopeless. “I guess we should have me get beaten up by the Doom Raiders and let them threaten my life again.”

Eon snickered. “I am sure that is not the reason for your awakening.” The wise old sorcerer never had another Skylander experience such a thing, but he had seen similar events. “However, the urgency of the situation and your own willpower might have been possible factors that triggered the transformation. You might not be able to do it whenever you want, but whenever you need.”

Spyro thought about that sentence and it did make sense. He was very determined to protect his friends in that moment, so it might happen again when he must do exactly that. “I guess time will tell. Thanks for the talk Eon.”

“You’re always welcome, Spyro.” As his former student was about to leave, Eon had one last request. “And Spyro!” The Skylander turned around. “Make sure that you get a hold of the Golden Queen.”

Spyro smiled. “I will, master.” He ascended into the skies and left the spirit of their former leader in solitude.

The Magic Skylander made his way to the hospital of the Academy. He greeted Whirlwind as he looked for the room Cynder was stationed in. The building was clean and smelled like several healing potions that Spyro had to drink in his early days as a Skylander. After a short search, he finally found Cynder’s room. The dragon entered and was saddened by the sight of his good friend on the bed. Even though she was good at hiding it, Cynder was in a lot of pain.

“Hey Cynder.” Spyro silently called her to which she turned her head and smiled. “How’s it going?”

“It’s getting better.” The dragoness looked at her broken wing which was covered by bandages. “They said I can get out in a few days.” Cynder turned her head again as her smile started to fade. They told her something else, but she didn’t want to share that with Spyro.

“What did they say about flying?” Spyro was aware that she might never be able to properly fly again, and he was worried that that might cause her more pain than the wing itself.

“They’re not sure.” She said it without a hint of emotions. “They’re not even sure if attachements would help since they could put me through unbearable pain every time I spread my wings.”

Spyro felt extremely sorry and even guilty for Cynder’s situation. He gently put his claw on her shoulder. “I’m sure it will be fine. Just hang in there.” In all honesty, he wasn’t confident about it himself, but he had to put Cynder’s feelings first and encourage her.

Suddenly a loud noise echoed through the area. Spyro and Cynder turned silent and stared blankly at each other. The dragons could hear screams. Spyro hurried to the window to see what was going on. What he saw left him in utter shock.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Cynder pushed her friend to tell her what left him so speechless, since she couldn’t see through the window for herself.

Spyro gulped and couldn’t take his sight off the horrifying view outside. “Spyro what’s happening?” Cynder asked again in a more impatient manner.

The leader slowly turned his head to the dragoness and didn’t say a word at first. He responded by showing her the pure fear in his eyes. “Stay here.”

The purple dragon zoomed outside of the room without losing another second. “Wha- Spyro! Wait, what’s going on? Spyro!?” Cynder cried after the dragon but he didn’t return.

Spyro dashed outside of the hospital through a crowd of worried Skylanders and bystanders and couldn’t believe his own eyes. The Academy was being assaulted by an enemy who was believed to be long gone. An enemy with such power, that everyone who merely mentioned his name trembled in fear. It was none other than the Undead Dragon King Malefor.

The enormous dragon was spewing purple flames across the roofs and pillars of the Academy as the Skylanders were fleeing helplessly. Some tried to fight him off, but they were all overwhelmed by his undead magic. Spyro didn’t hesitate and jumped into battle. “What are you doing here Malefor? How did you return?”

“Spyro, so we meet again.” The king interrupted his massacre with a sinister grin whilst looking at the tiny dragon. “I thought I’d pay you and your friends a little visit after being resurrected from my immortal doom” The purple tinted flames surrounding him made his presence even more threatening than usual.

“Resurrected- How?” Spyro’s companions gathered behind him as long as Malefor wasn’t busy attacking any of them.

“Unimportant. What’s far more important is the fact that I will obliterate this entire Academy and rule all of Skylands with an iron claw!” The menacing dragon’s eyes glowed in a yellow light as he was about to continue his rampage.

Further off from the scene of action, one of the Academy’s many portals was activated. Through a bright light Hex floated out in a hurry. She looked around and soon saw the terrifying scenery and dashed towards her allies. The Skylanders have been fighting the dragon king with their combined strengths, and while many of them took heavy hits, they were slowly able to make out his weak spots and fight him more effectively. Spyro was facing the dragon head on. They were both weakened, but Malefor still had enough energy left in him to shot a mighty undead blast at Spyro. The Magic Skylander couldn’t react in time and the blow was about to consume him. He closed his eyes just to open them seconds later after nothing happened. He saw Hex in front of him, using her powerful magic to shield the leader from the strike and finally throw it back at Malefor. The king screamed in agony as he was engulfed by his own flames and finally turned into thin air.

There was silence. Everyone looked at Hex in awe. They were about to cherish the witch before she raised her hand to silence them. “It’s not over.”

Everyone looked at the place Malefor was just standing moments ago. There was a mysterious purple light in mid air which spread out like a flame. It turned bigger with each second and left the Skylander shocked once again. When it was finally done growing, it shifted colors and out of the light emerged Malefor, standing tall in his full glory without a scratch on his body. No words could be heard. There was only silence as the Dragon King looked down on the heroes with a dark smile.

“So, you did return to save your friends. How noble of you.” He was looking at Hex while talking in a sarcastic tone to tease her.

“Hex, what’s going on here?” Spyro finally spoke up and wanted to know how Malefor could return from the dead after only a few moments.

Hex ignored the dragon and instead directed her voice back at the evil dragon. “Leave this place Malefor, you have no reason to be here!”

“I have the reason that I’ve had for the past thousands of years, to rule the Skylands. And even you won’t be able to stop me this time.” Malefor kept his sinister grin on his face at all time to show everyone how confident he was in his power.

“Hex, why is he here? How could he come back?” Spyro sounded terrified and expected the witch to have an answer, but she once again ignored him.

“I will defeat you as many times as I have to you twisted beast!” Hex clenched her fists and was ready to fight the dragon with all her strength.

“Save your powers witch, don’t you want to tell your friends what they want to know.” Malefor knew how confused everyone was after his incredibly fast resurrection and wanted to let them know exactly how it was possible. “This one might fall into a coma if you keep him waiting.”

He was referring to Spyro who cowered behind Hex in fear. He was lost and feared for his life, the dragon thought that Malefor has become truly invincible. Hex looked behind herself to see the terrified Skylanders, but she didn’t know how to explain it to them, since she wasn’t quite sure herself.

“I told you during our last encounter that you cannot defeat me. No one can.” Malefor started to tell the same story that he told Hex when he surprised her in the underworld just a few minutes ago. “I have been resurrected by a force greater than all of you together. And what keeps me alive and allows me to return from the dead is the exact same force that once put an end to me. It’s you, Hex.”

The crowd gasped and all eyes were on Hex. The Undead Skylander remained silent until she suddenly raised both of her hands in a quick motion. She summoned a pair of giant skeletal hands from the depths of the underworld which grabbed Malefor’s hind legs. The king’s body was torn to the ground, causing the entire Academy to shake under his enormous force. The dragon used his front legs to push himself up, but the hands kept pulling him away from the still shocked Skylanders. Hex concentrated on removing the foe with the help of the hands, but it was no easy task. Malefor roared and attempted to shoot another breath of fire from his air, just to get interrupted by another strong pull. When he was at the edge of the island, Malefor used all his might to stay on it by digging his claws into the earth. Hex moved closer to the edge to look him in the eyes before she would banish him back down into the hole he emerged from.

“You cannot keep me trapped forever!” Malefor yelled as he made another unsuccessful attempt to pull himself back up. “I will return, and you will regret ever facing me!”

Hex has heard enough and let her arms fall in a downwards motion, which Malefor soon did as well. With the skeletal hands tightly grabbing onto him, the dragon fell down from the island and into the endless foggy depths of Skylands, until all Hex could see was a wild flurry of purple lights that eventually disappeared in the fog as well.

Everyone hurried to the edge to see if there was any sign left of him, but there wasn’t. They all looked at Hex with relief, but the sorceress didn’t bother to turn around. Instead, she summoned another huge skeletal hand right in front of her and opened its palm. The Skylander then continued to float over the white bones which served as fingers and into the middle of the hand.

“Hex, what are you doing?” Spyro questioned the witch as she hovered inside the large hand.

The witch finally turned around to face her worried allies, with Spyro up front. “I can’t keep Malefor trapped from up here… I have to follow him.”

“What!?” Spyro was shocked and didn’t want to lose his trusted ally. “You can’t do that!” Spyro didn’t understand what exactly happened between the two recently, but he wouldn’t let any Skylander near that malicious creature. “What did he mean when he said you are the force that keeps him alive? Hex you have to tell us what’s going on!”

Hex sighed and decided to finally tell everyone the truth about her disturbing bond with the dragon king. “As he already said, he can’t be defeated.” She felt a certain guilt but also anger for his return and hesitated when talking about it. “I fought him just a few hours ago, I thought I finally put an end to him, but then that same light appeared and brought him back.”

“That can’t be possible, no being can resurrect itself after every defeat!” Stealth Elf decided to speak in Spyro’s place and find some solution to their problem.

“You’re right, that isn’t possible.” Hex agreed with the elf. “Unless they have a source of power that allows them to do so.”

Spyro thought about that for a moment and put the pieces together. “Wait, does that mean you…”

“He is using my powers to resurrect himself and become even more powerful than before.” Hex finally told them exactly what Malefor told her. “After my first battle with him, when I turned into an undead and my powers changed, a remaining fragment of his soul connected itself to them and used it to keep Malefor alive all those years.” The witch couldn’t believe that she helped Malefor to return to the Skylands instead of ridding them from him after everything he put her through. “He couldn’t use my powers to regain his physical body and magic, but some other force helped him with that and now he can use me to stay alive forever.”

“Hex, I-” Spyro had no words. He didn’t want to make her feel like it’s her fault the dragon is back, since it was clearly a cruel curse that she couldn’t escape. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay Spyro.” Hex looked over the crowd one more time before turning her back towards them and closing the fingers of the skeletal hand around herself. “I will make sure that he never causes anymore damage again.”

With those words the giant head with the Skylander inside of it descended from the island as well, following Malefor deep down into the underworld.

“Hex, wait!” Spyro dashed to the edge and looked down, but the witch was already gone.

Everything went silent again, until Stealth Elf joined Spyro and put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be fine, Hex knows what she’s doing.”

“But we have to help her!” Spyro looked at Stealth Elf with determination but also sadness. “We can’t leave her down there with him.”

A cold wind blew across the crowd and some of the paralyzed heroes could feel a cold shiver running down their spine. The Skylanders spent a few more moments looking over the devastated edge, with haunting traces of Malefor’s claws going through the earth like a blade, constantly reminding them that one of the most dangerous and powerful villains in Skylands is back.

After everyone processed the shocking scenery, a ray of light shined down through the grey clouds in the form of a pillar onto the same spot where Hex just stood moments ago. The Skylanders looked upwards and soon saw a divine figure descend from the heavens. It was a woman dressed in white and gold fabric with a halo floating over her head. She had golden bronze hair which was styled backwards with the sharp tips pointing straight up. The unknown face landed on the messy ground of the Academy, her cape-like cloth moving elegantly with the wind, and observed the group of heroes for a moment, who were all confused as to who she was and why she was there.

“That was certainly an unpleasant display I had to witness.” The halo above the woman’s head started to move on its own and floated in front of her. The ring expanded and created a yellowish screen with data inside of it, which the stranger used to write on. “The return of the Undead Dragon King Malefor followed by his disappearance alongside a Skylander.” She kept her eyes on the screen while reciting what she was writing down.

Spyro stared at her for a few more moments before breaking the lonely discussion. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

The stranger stopped her documentation and moved her eyes up to look at the leader properly. “Oh right, how rude of me. My name is Angelica, ambassador of the Guardians.” Her voice sounded very smooth and almost soothing, but it was a rather deep tone that gave off the vibe that she was a more serious type.

That information didn’t ring any bells with the dragon. Some Skylanders have heard of an elite group of angels who are located in the Highlands, a part of the Skylands high up in the clouds, called the Guardians.

Angelica typed some more things onto her halo screen before closing it and returning the ring to the position above her head. “Now where is Knight Light?”

The front row of Skylanders looked behind themselves to see the Light Trap Master push himself through the crowd and step in front of Angelica. “Here.” He said in a rather unpleased tone.

“What’s that ridiculous mask supposed to be?” Angelica sounded revolted after seeing the knight’s mask which he has been wearing ever since he became a Skylander. “Take it off!”

Knight Light sighed before grabbing the hawk-like helmet with his hands and removing it. The Skylander revealed his short messy golden blonde hair. Since he always had a helmet on his head, the Light Skylander didn’t bother with styling his hair a certain way, so it was just a collection of spikes going into different directions. He had sky blue eyes that managed to shimmer even in the dark setting the group was currently in. “What do you want?” The angel asked while some Skylanders whispered about the unexpected reveal of his entire head.

“You have been a Skylander for several years now Knight Light. You know very well that your wings were a gift for your… outstanding performance as a Guardian.” By the tone of Angelica’s voice, everyone could tell that she wasn’t too fond of the knight. “However, now that you are no longer a member of our group you have to hand your wings back to the Highlands.”

Gasps could be heard from the crowd and Knight Light’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.” Angelica remained stern and cold. “Our superior wants it that way.”

Spyro has had enough of the confusing discussion and decided to confront his fellow Skylander. “Knight Light, what’s going on? You never told us about any of this.”

“I wasn’t allowed to.” He looked over to his former companion who notably doesn’t have any wings. “The Guardians are a secret organization that’s supposed to protect the Skylands from above.”

“That’s the Skylanders’ job!” Spyro sounded insulted. “What makes you believe you need to protect us?” He directed his words at the obedient Guardian.

“Minutes ago, you were threatened by Malefor and one of your allies had to drag him to the underworld. I think that’s a perfect example for how well you can protect yourselves, not to mention the rest of the Skylands.” Angelica had a proud smile on her face while keeping eye contact with the angered dragon.

“I’m not giving you my wings!” Knight Light finally answered. “I have earned them, and I still require them as a Skylander, you can’t just take them!”

“You are ruining our reputation and anonymity by presenting your wings to the world. The Skylanders have no right to any of our powers and privileges. Neither do you as one of them.” Angelica summoned a pair of golden blades curved in dangerous shapes and stepped closer to Knight Light.

The Trap Master pulled out his Traptanium Scythe and held it in front of him defensively. “Not a chance, Angelica.”

The Guardian sighed and pulled her halo up as a screen again. “Disobedience and stubbornness.” The Guardian spoke while typing. “Typical.” A comment she added on the side.

There was an odd silence with Knight Light in his fighting stance and Angelica seemingly waiting for something to appear in her halo. Finally, she closed it again and it floated back above her head. “Fine, there’s a possibility for you to keep your wings.”

Knight Light moved his scythe down and listened suspiciously. “What is it?”

“If you can prove yourself to be an effective protector and guardian to the Skylands, you will be able to keep your wings.” She rolled her eyes before finishing the sentence. “Even as a Skylander.”

Knight Light had a faint smile and was happy to hear that. “I’m sure that wasn’t your idea, so thanks to your superiors.”

Angelica scoffed and took a step back. “I will keep watch over you Knight. So you better deliver your best performance.”

Not a second later, the Guardian ascended back into a pillar of light and disappeared among the clouds. Knight Light’s hair flowed in the wind as he looked up with a self-assuring smile.

Another moment of silence occurred, and no one had the words to comment the situation. “I sure hope the was the last unexpected visit for today.” Sprocket finally said jokingly.

The group separated again, and everyone discussed the recent occurrences. Some wondered what those Guardians were all about, while others expressed their shock about Malefor’s return. Stealth Elf and Spyro walked alongside each other as usual. “So, Knight Light used to be a member of a secret organization and might lose his wings.” Stealth Elf commented. “And we thought Tidepool was suspicious.”

Spyro couldn’t focus on his friend’s speech. He only repeatedly heard Hex’ last words before sinking into the dark depths of Skylands in his head. “Spyro?” Stealth Elf finally pulled the Magic Skylander out of his thoughts. “You’re thinking about Hex and Malefor, aren’t you?”

“I just can’t believe he’s back.” Spyro started to imagine all the terrible things that could happen if he managed to escape. “And Hex…”

“We will find a way to stop him.” Stealth Elf didn’t worry too much about the undead threat and instead wanted to focus on the mission at hand. “Hex is taking care of him, we don’t have to worry about it now.” The friends walked a little longer before Stealth Elf continued. “And there’s still the Golden Queen problem. We don’t know where she is or what she’s up to, we need to find her first.”

“You’re right.” Spyro set his priorities straight and realized that the queen was currently more dangerous than the undead dragon. “We have to take care of one thing after the other.”

Many months since Malefor’s return and disappearance have passed. The dragon king hasn’t been seen ever since, but neither has Hex. The search for Golden Queen was unsuccessful so far, but the Skylanders continue to put all of their time and energy into finding her, as they feared an unexpected attack at any time. Knight Light has been going on missions regarding the queen and other villains everyday to prove his worth to the Guardians and keep his wings.

Meanwhile Sprocket has been working tirelessly on a device that would show her the exact location of the Golden Queen ever since she escaped. The engineer used the jewel that she found after her fight with the queen to help her, but nothing worked out so far. She made some final adjustments to the tracking machine she was currently working on until it was finally done. The Tech Skylander grabbed the turquoise stone and held it tightly in her hand.

“Please let this work.” The goldling took a deep breath before placing the small object inside the device.

The machine scanned the stone and calculated many different factors and formulas. It was supposed to find the other identical jewels that the Golden Queen possessed, no matter where they are in Skylands. It seemed as if it would fail again at first, but finally the screen attached on front of the device showed a map with a blinking red dot. That was the location of the Golden Queen. Sprocket’s mouth formed a big grin and the Tech Skylander jumped up in joy. “Finally I can put an end to this!”

[kokkoro]

Violet Blue (15/15)

General wolf rules for life: Eat. Rest. Rove in between. Render loyalty. Love the children. Cavil in moonlight. Tune your ears. Attend to the bones.  Make love. Howl often.     Clarissa Pinkola Estes

or

being moms is hard, being werewolf moms in the suburbs is even harder. (read here on ao3)

December

1.

November passes slowly, but it passes like everything else, and for that you’re grateful. December opens cold. Frost coating the ground and a chance of rain, though the clouds keep it at bay long into the day. It breaks just as you pull into the driveway with takeout, Aden and Jack in the backseat bouncing with energy and hunger.

The three of you make a break for it, and the two of them giggle as they race up towards the front door, you in last with the bags.

“Shoes!” you call when Aden manages to wrangle the front door open, Jack scooting in ahead. Your oldest waits by the open door and you when you get close you urge him inside .

Lily and Danny greet you in the hallway, rushing towards you, and you lift the bags to avoid any inquiring fingers as Aden darts off towards the kitchen.

“What’s in the bags, momma?” Danny sniffs and a second later her eyes go wide. “Hamburger? Is it hamburger?”

“Yes,” you say, lifting your arms higher. “But we have to wait.”

“Where the toys?” Lily asks, reaching for you with her tiny hands. She latches on to the edge of your jacket, following your lead in this awkward shuffle towards the kitchen.

“No toys.They’ll just end up in someone’s mouth.”

Clarke wanders the kitchen, grabbing plates and napkins. The dark circles under her eyes aren’t as apparent anymore and when she catches you entering the kitchen, Aden at her heels chattering a mile a minute, she smiles.

You place the bags on the table, unloading one by one. They each have their own order, little kids sized portions from children’s menu, and you unwrap each one and place it on a plate. A chicken wrap with extra sauce for Aden, no tomatoes for Lily. A hamburger with bacon for Danny, ketchup and mustard included, roast beef for Jack. A basket of chicken fingers for Madi, and then a large steak sandwich which you’ll share with Clarke, along with a to-go cup of macaroni and cheese just for her.

It takes close to fifteen minutes to get everything unpacked, and then another five to get everything situated and ready to go on some paper plates. A movie plays on the television and you have the coffee table pushed aside to make room for pile of blankets and pillows stretched out in front of the couch.

Clarke is the last to finish, picking through her small cup of macaroni meticulously and patiently. You watch her instead of the movie and you know she knows you are. She ignores you, or pretends to, spearing the remaining macaroni individually to prolong the inevitable, and you’d feel jealous if it weren’t for the fact that she’s told you she liked yours better.

Her smile widens until it’s impossible to hide. She sets the empty styrofoam cup of macaroni aside and settles in beside you, her chin resting on your shoulder.

“My moon and stars,” you whisper, and Clarke’s lips twitch but she leans in closer to kiss you. Her lips land on the side of your neck and then shifts up to your lips and it tastes like macaroni and cheese. It is also, perhaps, more intense than you were expecting, and for a moment your left stumbling, but you smile and lean in, your noses smushing.

Clarke leans imperceptibly away. “You’re cheesier than this macaroni,” she says, still close, and you love the way her voice is rough in the middle.

“But is it working?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, kissing you again, and this time she makes it linger. “Very much.”

You’re smiling when you press together with her again, and your movements are slow and meant to be savored. The television fades and falls to the background, unimportant, and for a blissful moment it's just the two of you in your own space, but you feel small hands at your cheek, poking and prodding, and you’re pulled reluctantly from Clarke’s lips after one last quick kiss.

“Me too, me too,” Lily says as she tugs your face away, hands on your cheeks and she’s not satisfied until she has your full attention. She holds your stare, a stalemate as she waits for you to respond and when you do she squeals.

You capture her in the circle of your arms, your mouth in the crook of her neck, blowing raspberries. Lily wiggles, feet kicking, but doesn’t make an effort to escape from your arms as Madi pounces, stretched to circle her arms around your neck and hang. Two distincts thuds hit you simultaneously as Jack and Danny collide into you without warning, and you topple over among the blankets.

-

You don’t get very far that night, two steps into your room once things are put away and the pups are put to sleep. Clarke crowds you back against the closed door kisses you soundly. Your mind wipes pleasantly blank at the touch of her lips against yours and the rhythm you find with her is as exciting as it is relaxing. You get lost in it, there with your back against the door that when she pulls away it takes a second fo you to realize she has.

Clarke’s eyes are half lidded, chest heaving and lips red and swollen. You feel for the edges of her sweater and tug her back, pulling at it distractedly until she lifts her arms and lets you tug it off. The sweater falls into a heap on the floor at your feet when you let go and you reach out for the softness of her hips, trailing up towards the dip and flare just under her ribs.

“I should talk cheesy to you more often,” you tease, a subtle grin to your lips Clarke is eager to wipe away. She presses close, breasts and stomach flush, and you wish it was skin to skin.

“Any more and I’d have to eat you,” she murmurs, lips finding the underside your chin and you inhale this sharp intake of breath at the feeling.

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Trying to. Is it working?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

She drags you back to bed, both of you stumbling, bumping into one another as you shed clothes along the way. She helps you with your shirt, eager, and then finds the drawstrings of your sweats and pulls until you both topple onto the bed on after the other.

Laughter is muffled against skin, and she rests her weight against you, moving to straddle your waist. Her fingers find the underside of your chin, tilting your head back and you accept the kiss, your eyes drifting shut. You focus on the weight above you, on the happy little hums that escape Clarke’s lips as she places kiss after kiss onto your skin. You could get drunk off the promise of it, you’re sure.

You’re certain you’re already halfway there.

2.

All it takes for your house to descend into chaos is a knock at the front door. Madi immediately locks in on the noise even half asleep in your lap and starts to squirm while Jack bolts upright from his spot on the floor towards the front door and Aden is just a step behind. Clarke shares a look with you from the other side of the couch, Danny and Lily already gone.

“Door, momma,” Madi says as she wiggles ungracefully from your lap and then down onto the floor. Her tiny shirt bunches around her belly and you manage to reach out and tug it back into place before she slips away towards the others.

A mess of excited voices rises in volume in the hall and the creak of the door as it opens, and then Anya’s voice muffled by the excitement.  You lean back against the couch and Clarke glances at you beside her.

“Did you know she was coming?” Clarke asks, and you give a one shoulder shrug, reaching for her hand with your right.

“She told me it was a possibility.”

Anya appears around the corner, both hands occupied as Lily and Madi practically drag her into the living room. She’s half slouched, Aden on her back with his arms around her neck, quietly giggling, Jack and Danny each occupy a leg.

“Anni!” Madi exclaims and it feels like an announcement as she drags Anya forward with all her twenty pound might. Both of her hands are latched onto Anya’s left and you can see the annoyed amusement on Anya’s face as clear as day. You share a look with with her, your thumb brushing idly over Clarke’s knuckles.

“I can see that,” you reply with this slight smirk in Anya’s direction.

Anya stands there, motionless in your living room, her arms wave as Lily and Madi shake them like ragdolls, and deapans, “I’m being mauled.”

“Their bark is worse than their bite,” you say, and Anya smirks back.

It's a second, and then suddenly Anya shakes herself. Aden’s giggles amplifies, his grip tightening and Danny and Jack hold on for dear life. Madi and Lily scatter, squealing with laughter and when she she stops, Danny and Jack fall off onto the floor.

Clarke shakes her head beside you, but you know she’s just as amused as you.

Anya lets Aden down gently, crouching until his kicking feet find the floor. He slips free once he deems it safe, and Anya reaches out and ruffles his hair playfully.

“I got something for you,” Anya says after she pulls her hand away, quiet if not for the fact that it’s not just Aden who hears. She reaches into her jacket pocket, and then hands him this small package wrapped in what looks like a cut up brown paper bag.

“Where’s mine?” Jack asks, having roused himself from the floor and wandered closer.

“Is it your birthday tomorrow?” Anya says, and she waits a beat as if to prove a point. “I don’t think so. I’ll see you in July.”

Aden turns and scrambles over to the couch, holding out the little package in one hand while he uses the other to clamber up onto the couch. “Can I open it, momma?”

“That’s not up to me,” you say, watching as he finds a spot next to you. “Anya is the one who gave it to you.”

He looks up, over to where Anya still stands. Madi has taken her hand again, tugging, but Anya smiles, shrugs. “Go for it, kiddo.”

Aden pulls impatiently at the string and then the paper. Once it’s torn clean off, all that remains is this little book and Aden’s face lights up. “Look!” he says, showing it off. The cover reads: The Incredible Journey.

“I know you love the movie,” Anya says “And if you look inside there might be a little something extra.”

Aden’s head tilts, confused, but a second later he pulls out a ten dollar bill from the inside front cover flap.

Anya grins. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

-

“That was rather nice of you,” you say and Anya shrugs, leaning her weight against the table as you finish brewing a late pot of coffee.

“I had to make up for last year.”

“He probably doesn’t even remember.”

“Still, I don’t want to take any chances.” She turns, peaks across the hall into the living room where the pups have Clarke trapped underneath them on the couch, a familiar movie playing in the background. “That kid has one hell of a memory.”

“Admit you have a favorite.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t,” you say.

3.

Aden goes to school with a tray of cupcakes that you don’t expect to get back but you do. He takes the bus home, a new and welcome occurrence, and he fishes the tray, licked clean, from the large compartment of his backpack. At least he remembered to bring it home.

He tells you about it while you make snacks, up on his stool while he watches you cut the celery. Early morning reading and writing, arts and crafts, the games before lunch, and then the cupcakes. He gets stuck on that for a while.

“And then, and then. Momma, they sang happy birthday and we all got to eat cupcakes. I got two!”

“Is that so,” you say, paying careful attention to the knife and your fingers, but your heart feels close to bursting, your lips stuck in a smile.

“It was so cool, momma.”

The front door opens, squeaks on its hinges, and it’s almost comical the way your head turns in sync with the pups toward the hall.  What causes this all out smile, is the wave of excitement that washes over the group as Clarke makes her way into the kitchen with a bag of groceries, how Aden hops down from his stool and collides face first into her legs.

Clarke sets aside the bag and cradles Aden’s face in her palms, bending to kiss the top of his head. “The birthday boy,” she says, and Aden pulls back to beam up at her. “Did you eat all the cupcakes?”

He shakes his head. “I shared,” Aden says with a firm nod of his head. She gives him another kiss for good measure and then shoos him playfully away.

Clarke meets you by the counter, tucking herself against your back, her nose pressed into your neck. Her inhale is quiet, but your hear it, subtle, and you feel the way she relaxes in increments.

“He was just so small? When we found him,” Clarke begins, muffled into your shoulder. She watches your hands, the careful precision as you set up the plate of snacks. “I don't know. I mean, can you believe that?”

“Believe what, Clarke?”

“He was like this.” She pulls away slightly, just enough so she can cup her hands in the space between you, and it's an exaggeration but you get the gist. The smile spreads. “And now he’s…” and she holds her arm above her head.

“That’s a rather steep exaggeration,” you say, closing the distance to her. She pulls you in by the waist, and you glance over to where Aden is once again recounting his birthday tales to Lily who listens with rapt attention. “Last I saw he still needed help reaching the middle shelf of the fridge.”

“Lexa.”

You kiss her cheek. “I know what you mean.”

“It’s a little insane to think about,” she says almost wistfully. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that. He started it all.”

“Having second thoughts?”

“No.” Clarke shakes her head and her eyes find yours. “I’m glad we made it.”

7.

Everywhere you look it’s christmas.

Your neighbors set up twinkling lights and inflatable decorations in their front yard, hanging from the roofs, and it would be a shock had it not happened the same way last year. It still takes you a little aback though, seeing it, and it makes Clarke laugh.

The station is much of the same. Davis has taped little lights around the front entrance, and Mrs. Kean has this fake pine tree she brought in from home sitting on the top of her desk. Even Anya manages to sneak in a colorful wreath and stick it to your office door. You celebrate, if only to share in the revelry but you have a hunch that the officers think you’re a scrooge. Which is hardly the truth. They just don’t know you well enough.

Yet. You figure that will change in a minute or two when you wander out after being paged to find Clarke and the pups waiting for you in the main area.

It is a sight to see. Bundled up in their winter jackets and hats, the sight of them makes your heart stutter and stop and start back up again. Lily’s blonde hair half sticking out from under her beanie. She sticks close to Clarke’s legs, eyes unable to focus as she takes in the chaos that is your work. Madi ignores it, letting go of Clarke’s hand to rush towards you. It's a half jog half waddle and you scoop her up and settle her on your hip.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” you whisper as Clarke steps into your space, kissing you briefly on the lips.

“We were on our way by,” Clarke says with this subtle shrug of her shoulder.

“Oh my god, Woods, are these yours?” Davis says, swiveled around in her chair to look at the commotion you’ve gathered in the precinct.

“They are,” you reply. Madi tucks herself into the crook of your neck, perhaps a little embarrassed, her hold tight. Danny uses your legs as a buffer as she scopes out the unfamiliar faces staring back at her. Clarke grins.

Yours.

“My wife, Clarke,” you say, and her grin melts into a smile. She waves a gloved hand, and you watch the flush spread over her cheeks. You get stuck for a moment, looking at her, and it takes a second to shake yourself out of it. You think everyone sees, but you move on. “And here we have Madi, Lily, Danny, Jack, and Aden.”

Davis waves, and the response she gets back from the others causes this fit of contagious giggles. Lily hides her face against the back of Clarke’s legs, but Aden waves back while Jack looks on, still deciding. His mouth is pursed and there’s a wrinkle in his brow while he thinks.

“They’re adorable,” Davis says.

“They’re a bunch of rascals,” Anya butts in just loud enough to hear, and you turn to catch the grin on her face. “Like their parents.”

“Liam is handful all by himself,” Kevin moves up to stand beside Davis’ desk, arms crossed an a amused smirk. He’s your senior by about ten years, mid forties. You haven’t met his son but you’ve seen the pictures. “I can’t even imagine five.”

You look down at Madi in your arms, her nose cold against your neck but warming slowly. She breathes out this content sigh, wiggling closer. “We make do.”

15.

You see Clarke’s eyes lose focus as she goes through the christmas boxes you pulled down from the attic, the kids around her on the couch, and you know the nostalgia has taken hold of her. She thumbs an ornament from her childhood, and you know its significance, but you turn around towards the tree and double check it’s secure in the stand.

As long as the pups don’t mess with it, it will be.

You backtrack towards the coffee table for the string lights, but you see the tangled mess and decide to tackle that after a quick break. You sink into the end of the sofa and Lily crawls over into your lap and sits with her back against your chest.

“Can I see it?” Jack asks, reaching out for the ornament Clarke holds. He manages to see the look you cast him and adds, “Please.”

Clarke takes a moment to think but hands it over. It's a glass heart with the Clarke’s name and birthday etched onto the front, and you know on the back Jake carved his initials. It’s old, and the age is clear in the off color of its transparency.

Jack turns it curiously in his palms, tiny fingers tracing the edges and carvings. He holds it up to his eyes, peers through the facets of the glass. He beams at the way the lights pass through, but for a split second his grip falters, and the

Clarke’s eyes widen as she jerks forward to catch it, but it’s short lived.  She exhales when she notices it’s still safe in Jack’s tiny hands and leans back against the couch with a sigh. She pushes the hair away from her face, presses her fingers against her eyes. “Please, please be careful with that.”

A sincere look of remorse captures Jack’s features, and he glances down at the object he holds with a newfound perspective. He doesn’t understand, but he’s gentler in his approach.

He holds it back out to her.

Clarke’s hand drops, and she observes Jack’s outstretched hands a moment too long before accepting its return. She cradles the heart in her palm before setting it carefully aside.

“Help me with the lights?” you mutter to Lily, reaching around her for the bundle of tangled bulbs and wire on the coffee table. You set the pile over your laps and Lily digs her fingers into the mess.

She’s not much help. More of a hindrance really. Madi plays by herself near Clarke’s feet under the coffee table, but the rest join you in untangling the lights, pulling at the strings until something gives. You glance Clarke’s way every now and again, but she’s quiet as she rummages through the remaining boxes for a couple more decorations. She pulls out a few more strings of lights, and then picks herself up from the couch.

Your attention follows her, and you reach out to gently capture her wrist before she escapes. “Are you okay?”

Clarke nods. “Just gonna clear my head,” she answers as Lily glances up from the mess and looks between the both of you. You let go of her wrist and Clarke dips down to kiss you before disappearing into the hallway.

It’s thirty minutes maybe by the time you hear the creak of the back door as it opens and the tell-tale clack of claws along the hardwood. You’re nearly done with the lights, the strings stretched over the floor, plugged into the far socket to test for dead bulbs when Clarke appears around the corner, head low and tail wagging. The kids notice immediately.

The colors of the lights mix across Clarke’s fur and Lily squeals at the sight so you let her go. She runs that loping puppy run, all limbs and movement, and Clarke dips down onto her front paws and welcomes her.

Lily clings, arms thrown around Clarke’s neck, and her voice is garbled as she talks. Behind her, Clarke’s tail swipes back and forth across the floor, and she whines until the others clamber down from the couch (Madi crawling from underneath the table). You notice the change in movement, the excitement they can’t seem to keep under lock as tufts of fur sprout from their napes and trail under the collars of their shirts. They recognize safety when they see it.

Jack stays near you though, looking on as if the invitation somehow didn’t extend to him. He grips the edge of his shirt, eyes pleading, and you shake your head in exasperation and gently  coax him off the couch.

“Go on,” you whisper. “She’s not mad at you, Jack.”

Once situated on the floor, he stumbles over towards the group, timid, and it reminds you of those first few days way back when. Clarke’s tail wags faster, and the moment he steps close with the other, he’s greeted warmly. Soft ticklish kisses Clarke scatters over his face, and you know things can only get better from here.

22.

“Did you remember your coat?” you ask, taking a moment to rest your weight against the wall and watch Clarke shimmy a beanie low over Madi’s ears.

“Yes,” Clarke says, smiling at Madi who nips at her fingers when it’s becomes clear to her Clarke’s going to start fussing. Clarke quickly kisses the tip of her nose before Madi can tell her otherwise. “It’s already in the car.”

“Are you going to wear it?”

Clarke stands, stuffing her hands into the front pocket of her sweats, eyes trailing after her daughter as she joins the makishift line in front of Aden as he helps the others zipper their coats.

“Maybe,” she says with a shrug, this tease of a smile. She throws you a look over her shoulder. “I don’t know, I haven’t decided.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Are you bringing one?” she asks with this deceptively innocent tilt of her head.

You narrow your eyes. “Yes.”

“Then probably no.”

You exhale this soft growl and reach out to pull her closer, placing a kiss over the curve of her jaw once you have her. Underneath your skin you can feel a familiar itch and you’re ready to see it through. “If you get cold later…”

“I know, I know. It’s my fault.”

-

A soft, thin coat of snow blankets the earth, covering the low patches of grass and crushed leaves. It’s quiet, gentle in a way that belies its nature, and you sit and observe the way it works. Calming is a nice way to put it. After the two or so hours spent exploring the woods, you watch from the back hatch of the car as the drifts catch the pull of the wind, and it’s hard not to find at least a little bit of peace in it.

Clarke huddles next you, side to side, and you feel her shiver when a gust swirls into the back of the car. She shivers, and you feel a slight nudge when she presses her snout into your fur and breathes.

You take your eyes off the darkening landscape, the moon hidden behind the dark expanse of sky and clouds, and watch the way Clarke’s eyes blink slowly, shuffling her front paws as they start to slip in weariness.

She’s waiting for you, and you figure it’s best to listen.

You prod her with the tip of your nose, a gentle bump to the side of her head and her ears flick at the touch. She nips at your neck in retaliation but you don’t really feel it. It only serves to further gather your attention. Clarke turns around, stepping carefully around the sleeping pups before finding a spot near the back.

Once she’s settled, you slink across the small bed of the car and curl up behind her. You’re eager for the warmth you share.

24.

“Are they asleep yet?” Clarke mutters into your neck, draped over you on the couch. You fold your book down on her back, holding your page with your thumb, and listen.

You don’t hear much besides the usual. Your house which feels more like a home and all its familiar creaks and sounds, but you don’t really feel like moving, comfortable as you are, and the thought of setting up for tomorrow morning sounds quite honestly like the last thing you want to do so you pick up your book and lie.

“Afraid not.”

Clarke grumbles something intelligible against your skin, and you flip to the next page as she turns her head and relaxes again. A couple minutes later she asks, “How ‘bout now?”

“No,” you say softly, hiding your smile in the kiss you press to the top of her head.

25.

Your house is already an amalgamation of noise by the time noon passes and your house fills to near capacity. Squeals of laughter echo from the hallway as pups dart in between legs and around furniture, the nonstop sound of the fridge as it’s pulled open and bottles clink. You’re tuned to the sound of Clarke’s voice as she discusses the proper temperature at which turkey cooks with her mother.

They’re both wrong, and you step in before dinner is ruined before it even starts.

Clarke steals a kiss when you shoo her away, oddly smug, as though she tricked you into cooking and perhaps she did. She’s back ten minutes later to help, however, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“How are you?” you mutter underneath the noise, dipping your head in Clarke’s direction in order to obtain some semblance of privacy. Clarke nudges back and shrugs, reaching for the bag of carrots and the peeler.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Happy.” She stops and thinks, her hands motionless. You nuzzle the side of her head, breathing in the scent of her.  “Sad.”

“I understand.”

Her hands finally move and you give her space, watching as she reaches for a carrot and begins to sheer. “He loved this more than anyone,” she says, and she keeps herself focused, rolling the carrot over to you once it is ready to be chopped. “It doesn’t feel right without him, but things go on, I guess.”

“How’s it going over there?” your cousin Barrett calls, and you turn around to see him leaning into the kitchen with a grin. Like all of Gustus’ sons, he’s tall and built like a bear with dark hair and dark eyes, but full of fluff and everyone knows it.  “Are you bothering the chef, Clarke?”

She looks over to him, the earlier sadness falling away into that particular fond annoyance reserved for your cousins. He shrinks at the accusing glare, grinning sheepishly, and when a gaggle of pups knocks into his legs, he uses the distraction to scoop one up.

“Carry on,” he says to Clarke with an approving nod, little Artigas staring up at his uncle in a confusion that causes your lips to quirk and Clarke to shake her head. He wanders back into the group gathered in the living room, and the pups scamper behind him.

You turn back, chopping the pile Clarke has accumulated for you. It’s simple, and it keeps your attention, but even with nothing left to do Clarke lingers.

“If you need a break…” you start, but Clarke doesn’t move. She leans into you, drops her head to your shoulder.

“You make me happy.”

-

Your family is too big to eat dinner around a table, so you set everything up with Clarke and Abby’s help and let the wolves have at it. The turkey practically disappears within seconds, and you’re grateful for the honey glazed ham Gustus prepared just in case.

That goes too.

Once it’s all done the lot of you spread out among the kitchen and the living room, playing games or making small talk. You’ve procured a spot for yourself on the floor with the pups, enjoying the simplicity of their play while you listen to the other adults talk around you. It’s some form of tag and you’re always it.

You reach for Madi, but she giggles around the thumb in her mouth and twists away. She watches you just out of your reach, glancing between you and her siblings and cousins, and waits to see if you’ll make chase. When the sense of danger subsides she wanders closer again. You snag her this time, pulling her into your lap.

Her laughter is all from her belly, full and loud and it fills your chest with warmth. “Momma,” and she descends into more giggles, tucking her chin to her chest. “Tickles.”

You relent, letting her go, and she teeters away still fighting the last remnants of laughter, glancing back only once before attempting to rejoin the others. She gets distracted by Clarke, however, who, on her way over to you, bends down to quickly fix the unruly hairs sticking up on her head. She escapes before Clarke can finish, however, and you watch the whole body sigh that follows as a result.

Clarke reaches you momentarily, lowering herself down onto the floor, sticking close into your side. You bump your nose against her cheek, focused on the way her lips split into an almost smile. You kiss her then, off to the side of her mouth, and when it gets you the smile you were hoping for you do it again.

“I missed you, too,” she teases quietly, and you take her lips properly this time.

“You kiss her to much,” comes Anya’s voice from across the room, and there’s a few offhand chuckles of laughter that you pay no mind to.

You pull away, shaking your head. “I don’t kiss her enough.”

[medicatemedrmccoy]

When in Rome - Pt 2

I’m going to go ahead and apologize for this chapter. I think its pretty boring as its a filler chapter. I’m sorry :( but trying to cut it down just wasn’t working and didn’t feel right. The next chapter will be much more exciting!(hopefully)

Leonard x Jim

Teen for violence

2,590 word(s) of plot and story development

Warnings: None in this chapter

Part One

Jim stood firmly planted in the sand, head on a swivel as he glanced at the crowd as they continued to cheer, and watched their surroundings, not knowing what might happen next. His hand lay protectively and reassuringly on Leonard’s shoulder as the other continued to catch his breath and gathered his bearings, still trying to figure out what was going on.

Jim and Leonard’s heads both snapped up at the same time when they heard a loud creak just to their left. Jim’s eyes narrowed as he stared into the dark, barely lit doorway. Leonard made to get up and grab the shield again but he couldn’t make his legs cooperate. Leonard decided to stare angrily into the darkness instead, sweat and blood trickling down his brow.

After what felt like forever to both Jim and Leonard, a man holding a spear and dressed in traditional Roman style garb, stepped out of the darkness. Jim instinctively placed himself between the man and Leonard, wiping his sweating hands on his pants before quickly picking up his sword from off the ground and holding it halfway in the air in front of him.

Leonard tried to grab at Jim’s pants, trying to pull him back but Jim just shook him off and stood his ground, continuing to glare at the man. The man only used his spear to point at the dimly lit doorway and said “Come”.

Neither Jim nor Leonard moved a muscle at the man’s words. The man then simply walked out from the doorway, slowly and non threateningly, yet Jim didn’t lower his guard. As the man approached and made his way behind them, Jim moved with him, always placing himself between the man and Leonard, despite the others protests of still trying to grab Jim back.

“Go.” The man said again as he lowered his spear and pointed to the door, yet made no other moves.

“Jim, maybe we should, what else are we going to…” Leonard whispered quietly to Jim, seeing no other choice besides fighting but the man was obviously not threatening them and they were exhausted. Jim’s eyes darted to Leonard for a split second, he was bleeding and tired. Jim wasn’t fairing much better, but if the man tried something, he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

When the man made no more moves but to keep pointing at the door, Jim eventually lowered his sword before dropping it into the sand next to Leonard’s shield. Jim backed up slowly, not taking his eyes off the man, and stood beside Leonard once more.

“Come on Bones, lets get you up.” Jim said as he put his arm underneath Leonard’s shoulder and helped him out of the sand and to his feet. Jim glanced back at the doorway and slowly started inching his way toward it, still keeping himself between the man and Leonard. Jim kept his arm around Leonard, helping him walk to the door. Jim knew Leonard had to be tired when the other didn’t protest at the assistance.

Jim led them through the doorway, slowly, still on high alert for anything amiss. The only thing he got was the door slamming behind him, causing him to hesitate, making the man behind them jab him in the back with his spear to make Jim keep walking. Jim hesitantly kept walking them both down the dimly lit hallway, after giving the man behind them a stern glare.

“You’ve done well. The Emperor is pleased.” The man holding the spear said quietly as they rounded a corner.

“Emperor? Who are you? What do you want with us?” Jim fired off as the man finally broke the silence. He was hoping for answers but didn’t really expect the man to answer any of his questions, and it was quickly confirmed when the man just laughed at his confusion as he stopped them in front of a large door.

“Inside.” The man said, nodding in the direction of the open door. Jim didn’t bother arguing and shuffled himself and Leonard inside the door. Jim sat Leonard down gently on the straw floor. Leonard groaned softly as he slid to the floor, landing with a soft “thump”.

“You alright Bones?” Jim asked as he took Leonard’s face into his hands, looking the doctor over, his stark blue eyes full of concern.

“I’m fine Jim, but your hands are filthy. No telling what kind of germs are in this place.” Leonard groused as he slowly pried his head from Jim’s grasp. Jim rolled his eyes, amused as he put his hand on Leonard’s leg and hoisted himself up. Jim walked around the fairly small room, no windows, only tall wooden walls with the door they walked in, the only means of escape. Jim sighed in frustration, continuing to look around for something, anything to give him a clue.

“Jim, stop. We’ll figure it out, but for now come over here and rest.”  Leonard said softly as his eyes followed Jim around the room. Jim stopped for a moment and glared at the wall in frustration. As much as he knew Leonard was right, at the same time he didn’t want to admit defeat and continued to check the walls in vain.

“Jim…” Leonard said more sternly this time. Jim heaved a heavy sigh and admitted defeat for now and made his way over to Leonard and slid his way down the wall next to him. Jim rested his head on Leonard shoulder and let out a small huff. Leonard chuckled and patted Jim’s leg as he laid his head on top of Jim’s ruffled hair.

The two of them ended up dozing off, for how long neither of them knew. They were both startled awake when the door to the room creaked open loudly. Leonard and Jim’s eyes snapped open just in time to see another man being shoved roughly into the room, landing face first in the straw. They both stared from the man to the soldiers until one soldier came in carrying two trays and plopped them down next to Jim and Leonard.

The soldiers left as quickly as they came and both men were stunned for a few moments before Leonard got up slowly, sore from the earlier fight, and made his way over to the man. Leonard knelt down next to the man and checked his breathing and his pulse.

“You with me?” Leonard said loudly as he smacked the mans face a couple of times. That’s all it took for the man to come around. His eyes flew open as he scrambled up to his feet, knocking Leonard on his ass in the process. Jim was over Leonard in a flash, not sure what the man was going to do.

The man calmed down quickly, finally getting his bearings and realizing that he was outnumbered. Jim and Leonard both retreated back to their side of the room, not taking their eyes off the man.

“Easy you two. You’ll find no trouble with me. Best to save your energy.” The man said as he slid himself down slowly against the wall on the opposite side of the room, exhausted and still bleeding from his various wounds.

“Who are you? What is this?” Why are we here?” Jim said quickly, he wanted some answers and this guy was going to give them.

“As for who I am, that’s unimportant, but who we are is the same. Noxii.” The man answered with a grim smile as he held his bloody arm closer to his chest.

“A what now?” Leonard asked, arching an eyebrow, halfway looking from Jim to the mystery man for a clue.

“Noxii, basically slaves or criminals used for fodder in gladiator events, lucky us.” Jim replied with what almost sounded like a scoff, like he was offended.

“As for the what and why, I think you can pretty much figure that one out. You seem to be pretty smart.” The man spoke once more, closing his eyes as he finished his sentence. Jim let out a small bark of a laugh, a little from the humor, but mostly from nerves. This was going to be a tough one to get themselves out of.

“And don’t even think of trying to escape. They’ll find you, they always do. No one has escaped and survived. Your best chance is to stay here, fight and hope you survive and earn your freedom.” The man added in, peering over with one eye cracked, as if reading Jim’s mind.

“Might as well get some rest, the two of you are going to need it.” The man suggested as he made to lay down on the hay lined floor, trying to get comfortable and closed his eyes.

“What the hell do we do, Jim?” Leonard asked quietly, still trying to take in this whole situation.

“We play the game. If they want a show, well give them a show.” Jim said simply, shrugging his shoulders, as he too lay down on the hay floor, glancing at the trays the soldier dropped off earlier. There was a little bit of bread, cheese and grapes on each tray. Jim dug in hungrily and offered Leonard some cheese.

“Oh good, another one of your death defying schemes. I can’t hardly wait.” Leonard let out a small sigh as he took the cheese without another word, not realizing till now how hungry he had become.

Jim went to offer the wounded man some bread but he refused. Jim shrugged and sat down next to Leonard as the other ate some of the grapes. Jim finished off some of the bread before curling up on the floor, exhausted. Leonard followed soon after and curled into Jim. It doesn’t take either of them long to fall fast asleep.

Jim and Leonard were woken abruptly when the cell door was flung open and soldiers marched in and they were both roughly lifted into the air and onto their feet.

“Hey!” Jim shouted as they were being manhandled, trying to grab his arms out of the soldiers grasp. Leonard grumbled some obscene, choice words as he fought back slightly against the soldiers. The soldiers didn’t care and ushered them both unceremoniously out into the hall.  

Leonard and Jim both walked down the hallway, angry at being woken up so roughly. They were led to yet another room like the one they were in before when they first woke up.

“Fantastic.” Leonard grumbled as the door shut behind them with a loud click, plunging them both into darkness once more.

This time at least the two of them were semi aware of what was going to happen next. They both stood next to each other in the darkness, waiting for whatever would happen next. Both of them practically vibrating with tension as they counted down the minutes that felt like hours.

After what felt like forever, the door finally creaked open slowly, bathing the small room in bright light. The two of them tentatively made their way to the edge of the doorway, Jim being the first to peer outside. When his head broke the doorway, the entire stadium erupted into loud, raucous cheers.

Jim stepped out fully into the light and surveyed their surroundings, trying his best to ignore the cheers of the crowd. After confirming that the coast was clear, for now, he motioned for Leonard to follow behind him. When Leonard stepped out, the crowd only got louder.

While the two were still looking around them, noting obstacles and walls that were randomly placed, when suddenly the sound of more doors opening filled the air around them. Leonard and Jim immediately went back to back, looking in the direction of the doors that just opened.

The two stood together, neither moving a muscle. The air was thick with anticipation, both of them remembering their previous experience all too clearly. They both stood their ground as they watched numerous other men peek their heads out of their respective doorways, all looking utterly terrified.

“I don’t think they’re the enemy, Jim.” Leonard said as he glanced around, noting their behavior and the looks on all of their faces.

“I don’t either, Bones.” Jim stated flatly, eyes trained on one doorway that was still closed. “We need to find weapons, armor, anything.” Jim added in, looking around quickly, never taking his eyes off the door for too long.

“Over there!” Leonard shouted and nudged Jim with his arm, pointing over to where their previous days weapon and shield lay. Jim and Leonard rushed over and grabbed the weapons, and just in time too.

The last door finally started to creak open slowly. All the men that were still in the doorway ran out into the arena and scrambled towards Leonard and Jim, the only ones with any sort of weapon. The men scrambled around them, ducking behind whatever cover they could find.

“Maybe we should follow suit, Jim.” Leonard said a little nervous, holding his shield up as much as he could, glancing from Jim to the open door.

“In a second. I want to know what we're dealing with.” Jim replied, his eyes trained on the dark doorway.

The sound of hooves suddenly filled the arena as a big, black Andalusian came trotting out of the cell as a rider, dressed in light Roman armor, armed with a bow and arrow, egged his steed on into the arena.

The man suddenly stopped the horse as he saw Leonard and Jim standing out in the open. He quickly drew his bow and arrow and sent an arrow sailing in between the tiny gap that separated the pair. Leonard flinched and moved away, Jim stood his ground, glaring at the man as if daring him to knock another arrow.

“Come on you idiot! Get down! Do you want to be a shish kabob?” Leonard yelled to Jim as he grabbed him and forced him to take shelter behind a small wall closest to them. Leonard glared at Jim for a few moments, angry at Jim’s stupidity, but it soon went away, that wasn’t what was important right now.

“What do we do, Jim?” Leonard asked as the sound of the horses hooves hitting harshly and kicking up the sand, filled his ears, drowning out the shouts and cheers of the crowd.

“Simple, survive.” Jim answered easily while glancing around the wall, trying to size up his opponent, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“I hope you have a plan, Jim.” Leonard replied as his grip tightened around his shield. Jim smiled in reply and gave Leonard a small wink. Leonard didn’t have a good feeling about this, but he trusted Jim. He had gotten them both out of similar situations, mostly intact.

Leonard shut his eyes for a moment and steeled himself. He let out a big breath and brought his shield up and placed it standing up in the sand.

“I’m with you Jim.” Leonard said finally as he brought himself up on one knee, his hand resting on Jim’s shoulder.

“I knew I could count on you Bones. Let’s do this.” Jim said, bringing himself up as well with a large grin on his face, careful not to stick his head above the wall.

“I’m so going to regret this.” Leonard mumbled as Jim went to move to a different shelter with a better view, and closer to the other men. Leonard reluctantly following suit, this wasn’t going to be pretty.

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